The Fourth Seal
by Ziggy Sternenstaub
Summary: What if Methos had made different choices when Kronos returned? What does an Apocalypse look like? Re-write of Revelation 6:8.
1. Methos

**The Fourth Seal**

by Ziggy Sternenstaub

_**And I looked...And power was given unto them over a fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth.**_ --Revelation 6:8, King James Bible

**Part 1: Methos**

_**And when he had opened the fourth seal I heard the voice of the fourth beast say, Come and see. **__**And I looked and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.**_ --Revelation 6:7&6:8, King James Bible

**_And thus I clothe my naked villainy in odd old ends stolen forth from Holy writ and seem a Saint when most I play the Devil._** --Richard III, William Shakespeare

The darkness of the meeting room in the formerly abandoned power station in Bordeaux crowded in on Methos as he sat alone at the table, three empty chairs facing him accusingly.

This was the room in which Kronos had held his impromptu war council only an hour before, the room where Methos had presented his plan. The plan was of course meant to distract his brothers until he could contact Duncan MacLeod and warn him of the virus. But should his plan play out as expected, Kronos would never dream again; never proclaim his plans in that marvellous stentorian voice. Never again would the mad blue light in his eyes shine with such joy, never again would his fire warm and inspire Methos....

The surety of his success should have at least grimly satisfied him, but the only thing Methos could feel was a sort of wallowing melancholy, for the end result would certainly be the deaths of all three of his brothers in blood, companions of millennia. Sometimes loved, sometimes hated, always cherished.

But, Methos reminded himself, survival came above all of that. Survival came above even the bonds of brotherhood.

Survival was the reason that he had left the Horsemen to begin with. When Methos had departed camp for the very last time he had not been pleased with the necessity, but had hardened himself to the reality. The civilisations of the world, once consisting of little more than apes squatting in mud huts, had become advancing empires. People were no longer quite so willing to submit to the Horsemen's rule, no longer quite so willing to view them as gods or demons and fearfully worship them-- and fear and superstition had been the key to Horsemen's power.

Methos had all too clearly foreseen their probable end at the blades of some petty emperor's armies, angry that the peoples and villages he had claimed as his own property were being slaughtered by outsiders, by some ragged, painted barbarians on horseback. Methos had not been willing to stay for the final, pointless slaughter.

Though Kronos had been Methos' closest companion, the man was set in his ways and would have refused to consider his departure rationally, so Methos had left one day, nonchalantly, as though he were simply going off for a ride. The horse he rode was as always the pale one, but Methos left his cloak and skull mask behind in his tent. He wore white, but his tunic was covered with his brown leather armour, and he did not wear his woad war paint. Those things were the trademarks of Death, and from that day forward Methos was only Methos, no longer to be Death.

He had ridden far from the Horsemen's traditional territory. Leaving Europe and Asia, he had made his way down into Africa, finding refuge in the sprawling cities of Egypt. Still news of the Horsemen was legendary, and Methos kept his ear to the ground. The Horsemen, it was soon said, were taking a break. Not a single raid lead by four masked riders had been reported in decades. Methos had been rather startled to hear it. He had been so focused on his own survival that he'd barely realized the passing time.

He knew that Kronos had likely attempted to continue on with but three Horsemen after Methos' departure, only to swiftly realize that without Methos the raids were all fury and no substance. Methos made the plans, so Methos sustained the mind of the Horsemen. No matter that Kronos was the heart of the Four-- the Horsemen could not continue on heart alone. Without Methos, the brotherhood was finished.

He found by then that he was somewhat glad for it. Like one who had been awake and moving for so long that he barely realized his own exhaustion, Methos found the need and time to rest after the thousand-year rampage across the face of the Earth. He buried himself in the small, quiet existence, taking up a position as a scribe and quickly adjusting to the change in lifestyle. He aimed to live his life simply for the sake of living.

This Methos did for almost three thousand years. Almost without realising it, he had gradually adapted and changed, eventually becoming something that belonged far more to cities than to the wild steppes and plains.

But all things come to an end, and if you live long enough the past always catches up with you, as it did on the day when his brother's knife was buried in his chest, and he looked into Kronos' grinning, furious eyes. Then had come the confrontations, the revelations, and the reunions. It was very tiresome, Methos reflected: the petty anger and tension, the demands that Kronos was making of Methos, and the fact that MacLeod had taken it upon himself to judge the Horsemen, to judge Methos.

"There are some less than lily white spots in your past, MacLeod. I'd like to see the look on your face if I were to condemn you for them. Those things that are none of my business," Methos whispered into the silence. "Of course, that is _different_." He laughed bitterly, knowing that MacLeod would demand clarification. He could hear it all, already knew how the confrontation would play out.

Standing up, the ancient Immortal stretched languidly and gave a little half smile, sweeping the empty room with cool hazel eyes. He ran his hand over the round table, feeling its polished surface before he left, vanishing down the metal staircase.

* * *

Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod entered the Elysium church warily, eyes flickering about, searching for the tall, slim figure of the man he had come to meet. Only a short time ago he would have greeted that man with a smile, glad to see the enigmatic legend he had come to call friend. Now that man was an enemy.

Methos' Presence was strong in MacLeod's mind, harsh and clear where before it had been furtively warm. The ancient Immortal was sitting up near the front, bowed over his knees in a thoughtful mockery of prayer. MacLeod stopped some distance away from him.

"Well, I'm here."

The words echoed in the quiet building, and MacLeod wondered if anyone else--a caretaker perhaps--was supposed to be here at this time of night and, if so, what had happened to him. He frowned at the thought.

"Yeah, thanks," Methos replied. His sounded quiet, subdued, speaking with none of the fiery passion of the man who had cackled the blood-soaked history of Death.

"Why did you lie to me?" MacLeod demanded, hating that he had to ask; hating the reversal of roles.

"About what?" Methos asked. He was watching MacLeod now, expression unreadable.

"About Cassandra, about who you were!"

"I have been many things, MacLeod," Methos answered. He sounded tired.

"And who are you now?" the Highlander asked. He needed to know. Was the man he spoke with now Methos, ancient immortal and professional cynic, or was he Death in disguise?

Methos glanced away, smiling absently. "Why'd you think I didn't tell you? I knew how you'd react. What I've done you can't forgive. That's not in your nature. Will you accept it?"

Accept it. The words fell like stone slabs in MacLeod's ears. Methos wanted him to accept the deaths of thousands, to meekly look away from an ocean of blood. And what about the ones like Cassandra, the ones who hadn't been so lucky as to die straight off?

"Accept what?! That a friend I trusted with my life slaughtered innocent people? For what-- a few head of cattle? What are you going to tell me, Methos, 'that's how the world was?'" MacLeod's spewed bitterness at his former friend in an insidious rush.

Methos stood up, his hazel eyes dark now with some suppressed emotion. He was half hidden in a shadow that cut across his slender body like a silver-gray cloak. Almost for a moment, Duncan thought he saw the shadow of a pale skull across the angular facial features. He blinked, and it was gone.

"No, the world was how we made it."

"No, the world was how you _chose_ to make it!"

Methos' eyes lit up with something like laughter before he turned away. The moment was almost brief enough to miss completely, but MacLeod was observing the other Immortal with painful intensity, and he caught the look. Renewed suspicion flared up in him and he continued with even more anger, "How you _chose_ to slaughter her people and burn her village."

"And I chose to take her prisoner."

"And...?"

"There's more."

Methos poured out his tale with the voice of a natural born storyteller, and MacLeod could almost hear the beating of the drums that had rang through the Horsemen's camp, could see Methos and Cassandra and Kronos, three players in that sordid little Bronze Age melodrama. As Methos talked, the two Immortals made their way outside of the church and into the graveyard, still on holy ground.

"She escaped across the wilderness, and she must have died a dozen times from heat and thirst before she found a village that would take her in, and I bet it was worth it just to get away from us." There was disgust in his voice, though for whom MacLeod couldn't quite figure. Cassandra or himself and his "brothers?"

"So what are you doing with Kronos now?" the Highlander asked, somewhat subdued. He didn't want to trust Methos, but found himself grudgingly doing so—to a point.

"Same as always: trying to survive. And if you want Cassandra to live, you'll get her as far away from here as you can."

"What, and let Kronos go!"

"You don't have a choice, MacLeod! You can't stop him. I can't stop him! Nobody can!" Methos was loudly adamant.

"Yeah, four guys on horseback are gonna rule the world," MacLeod snorted.

"The world doesn't change, not in five hundred years, not in five thousand. It's only the details that change. Kronos didn't torch those villages for a few coins; he torched them to watch them _burn_. And now he'll have a nuclear bomb or a planeload of Napalm but the effect will be the same. The world living in fear of the Horsemen," Methos wavered between his customary cynicism, and a sort of breathlessness that Duncan was sure he did not like.

"And you expect me to let that happen? You should know me better than that!"

He started to walk away, but Methos reached out and stopped him before he made it far. His eyes caught the Highlander's sharply, and for a moment Duncan felt every one of the ancient's years bearing on his soul.

"I came to warn you."

Methos explained the virus with a blank mien that only underscored the horror of what he was saying. A disease to destroy the world. A creation with the ability to fulfill the prophecy that the four ancient Immortals had inspired so long ago.

"It will only kill a few," Methos said of the bomb in the fountain. "But it's a start."

"The water supply's next," MacLeod filled in grimly.

"Bright boy," Methos mocked.

MacLeod came to a decision then. He needed to act, and he needed help-- inside help. He had no choice but to trust Methos.

"Let's go."

Incredulity spread over the ancient's face.

"Oh, no no." Methos' voice was a staccato stutter. "If I go up against him, I lose."

The man was absolutely unbelievable. "Going with the winner?"

Methos only smiled.

"So why are you here, Methos? What game are you playing?"

"It's in the bottom fountain just above the water line. White, then black, then red."

"Don't do this. You have a choice."

And he wanted Methos to make that choice, the Highlander suddenly realized. He wanted his friend to abandon his mad game playing and just come with him.

"And you have . . ." Methos checked his watch. "Twenty-four minutes."

Duncan stalked away.

* * *

The sensation assaulted Cassandra abruptly, unmistakable and harsh. Immortal Presence.

_It's about time,_ the woman thought irritably.

"Duncan, what took you so long?"

Impatiently, she opened the door, only to realize her mistake too late. She tried to slam it closed again, but already the three male Immortals were crowding into the small space.

Kronos stepped inside, grinning maliciously.

"I'm afraid _Duncan_ is otherwise engaged."

Silas and Caspian followed the older Horseman inside silently, looming statues of menace.

"Am I wrong? Don't I owe you something? Too bad you didn't know you had to take my head to kill me," Kronos drawled.

"I'll take it now!"

She lunged for her sword, but Caspian reached it first, leaping onto the bed to cover it with his heavy body, and the priestess felt her options rapidly dwindle. Then Knonos reached into his leather jacket and pulled out the very same dagger that she had stabbed him with so long ago.

"I've waited a long time to give this back to you." The scarred Immortal 's voice was calculated to inspire just the right amount of fear.

_He hasn't changed_, Cassandra contemplated with an odd sort of distant contempt for Kronos' predictable theatrics. She was going into emotional shock, she realized. They couldn't be here. She'd known they were united again, known it. . .but to actually see it, to have them come for her, together, after more than three thousand years... That was something else entirely.

Kronos walked very casually toward her. His eyes were glittering. Cassandra cringed and felt her mind go numb.

* * *

No more young lovers or gossiping friends lingered around the fountain with cotton candy. The people had fled in fear when Duncan had run at them screaming of the danger. Now the water soaked the Highlander's legs as he stood in the fountain, leaning over the bomb. Such a small thing to go unnoticed—death in a tiny box.

Hurriedly, MacLeod examined the wires, looking for the first one to disconnect the bomb. The blinking of the red lights where the timer was displayed distracted him for moment, and he stared at it. Not much time left.

_Wires. . .white, then black, then red_, he heard Methos' voice again.

Carefully he cut the first wire, and then the second, and then...

Red.

* * *

Kronos was waiting for him, chomping on fried chicken when Methos returned.

"Your bomb didn't work. Not much of a plan, was it?"

Kronos' behavior was too casual; deliberately transparent. He tossed a chicken bone into the fire dish.

"Well, I'll think of better," Methos replied.

"By the way, where were you?" Kronos demanded, jumping up.

"I was just--"

"Warning your friend. You didn't really think I wouldn't know you'd tell MacLeod, did you?"

"It's not like you think it is."

"It's _just_ like I think. My dearest brother, that's what makes you my perfect right arm. We think alike," Kronos had stopped close beside the older Immortal, crowding into his space.

Methos laughed as Kronos continued without pause. "We always have."

"I doubt that, Kronos. No one thinks quite like you."

Kronos chuckled, genuinely amused. "Spoken like a true scholar. Look at this." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small remote control. "All I have to do is punch in a few numbers, and a small vial explodes in the reservoir above Bordeaux. And then, well, you know what happens next, don't you?"

Methos stared at his brother with a slightly incredulous expression, but said nothing.

"We all have our own little plans. I'm sure you won't disappoint me. Come with me. I have something else to show you."

The other Immortal jauntily lead Methos to a large cage, more than big enough to hold a human. And sure enough, there inside lay Cassandra. Not lucid enough to observe her captors, she still seemed disturbed by their presence.

_The monsters invade even her dreams,_ thought Methos.

"She was asking about you. You knew exactly what you were doing when you sent MacLeod to that fountain, didn't you? So I did what you expected. I went and got Cassandra while she was unprotected. That was the plan, wasn't it?"

Kronos appeared almost edgy and Methos gave the expected nod of confession.

"You see, I know you better than you know yourself." The other Horseman sounded smug.

"Which is why the plan was perfect," Methos returned calmly.

"Your plans always are."

Methos smiled quietly and inclined his head with modest pleasure.

"I wonder what your friend MacLeod thinks of you now, though...."

"Think I care?" Methos murmured.

"You should. You lured him away. When he comes back he finds that someone's stolen his woman . . . If that--if that was me: I'd want you dead."

The meaning was clear; Methos did not need to be painted a picture.

Still calm, he observed his brother, a little smile now painted on his lips. Kronos seemed to be waiting for a response, and Methos let him wait. Almost without their having meant it to happen, a contest of wills arose between the two stubborn old Immortals.

Realizing that the battle could continue all night, both men looked away at the same time. Kronos leaned over the balcony railing.

"By the way, where are Silas and Caspian?" Methos asked.

"Ah. . .that goes hand in hand with this little device. One of my improvisations," Kronos smiled again, his eyes glinting into the darkness.

"You sent them for MacLeod, didn't you?" Methos mused.

"Why yes," Kronos mimed surprise at his guess.

The taller Immortal leaned close towards the other, his arms folded on the railing.

"I'm afraid they're going to be waiting a while. . . I've a gift for you, brother."

Kronos turned to Methos, eyes wide with interest.

"For me?"

* * *

Duncan MacLeod woke up with a start. It was dark--the dark of a gloomy building with few windows. Having taken numerous Challenges in just such surroundings, he knew the look of the place. He also knew that he was gagged, bound hand and foot, and chained to the wall of the room.

The last thing that he could remember was bending over in the fountain. He'd just disarmed the last wire of the bomb, and then something had hit him. A bullet or missile of some sort, he was sure. Perhaps a long range sharp-shooter? He'd not seen anyone in the area, or felt an Immortal Presence, so it was really the only possible answer. Someone just out of the range of his senses, waiting for the perfect moment. But who?

The heavy iron portal swung open, slightly illuminating the small room with still very dim light and Methos' slim form entered, followed by Kronos' shorter, stockier one.

"It's too bad I can't remember my birthday," Kronos drawled, "Or this would be the perfect gift."

"And here I thought I was the only one who couldn't remember his mortal life," Methos retorted.

"It's reconciling the calenders that gives me trouble."

"Of course," Methos shrugged as though he'd lost interest in the conversation. MacLeod was suddenly, poignantly reminded of how very fickle Methos could be at times: how he could be so intensely interested in the most trivial of things while completely dismissing what was really important.

"In any case," Kronos persisted in his damnably cheerful manner, "I don't need a birthday to be pleased with this. Of course"--he paused to flash MacLeod a delighted smile-- "I'll be _much_ happier once I take his head."

"Really," Methos commented, taking a seat on a large crate near the door.

"I'm sure you'll be happy too, brother," Kronos said pointedly, watching Methos with narrowed eyes. Methos returned the look calmly but MacLeod, observing closely, saw something change in his expression. It was as though Methos had suddenly reached the end of his rope.

"You know I'm not pleased, Kronos. I just know that MacLeod will only keep coming if I let him go. But know this: either we return to the old ways as equals or the Horsemen will never again be whole. You need my willing cooperation for success, and I'm willing to give you that. As long as you understand that you do not own me," Methos grated.

MacLeod screamed through the gag and struggled against his bonds.

"Always the survivor, the servant to necessity," Kronos whispered. "We were equals before, and you threw it away!"

"The world was changing. We would have been destroyed if we had tried to ride against cities, and we had no means to stop their growth. And you come after me now with your demands and your threats, and expect me to cooperate under these conditions? As you delight in pointing out: you know me better than that."

"So what changed your mind?" Kronos walked about the crate, stalking the silent figure in the middle. Methos followed the other Immortal with his eyes, as if he were tracking a snake.

"Maybe I'm tired of hiding."

"What about this sudden distaste for killing you've developed, brother? How am I to believe that one word of what you speak is truth?"

"That's the fun part, brother," Methos smirked, jumping up from the crate. "You don't."

He sauntered out the door.

* * *

Kronos stared after Methos for a long time before he was finally able to tear his gaze away from the doorway. He realized with an start that he was grinning widely, and felt fierce joy well up in his chest. Something had changed about the scheming, frightened man that Methos had become. Some dynamic had been altered. Methos had demanded his power returned to him, and when Kronos had questioned his right to it Methos had simply taken it.

Kronos spun around to eye the bound and gagged Highlander with delight. Oh, he was going to have fun with this one. With this...show of good faith.

"Well, MacLeod. I waited—and this is one cold dish that I am really going to savour."

Hatred burned in the Scotsman's brown eyes. Kronos laughed at him as he reached out and tore the gag from the younger man's mouth.

"You'd better kill me now, Kronos, because if you don't I _will_ escape, and I'll never stop coming until I take your head." MacLeod's eyes glowed in the dim light, and for a moment he truly appeared an avenging warrior angel. Perhaps the Highlander had forgotten that the angels, too, were portents of the end: merciless messengers of doom in a faith as bloodsoaked as Kronos' own dreams.

Kronos chuckled. "I've heard rumours of your prowess in battle. You've become overconfident!" And he quoted blithely: _"And I heard a great voice out of the temple saying to the seven angels, Go on your ways, and pour out the vials of the wrath of God upon the Earth._ Revelation 16:1."

Kronos smiled at the Highlander's baffled contempt. Soon, the terror of true belief would replace it. The Horseman was certain.

end part 1

* * *

Questions? Comments? Mobs with pitchforks and torches? All are welcome!


	2. Cassandra

**Part 2: Cassandra**

_**And the woman were given two wings of a great eagle, that she might fly into the wilderness, into her place, where she is nourished for a time, and times, and half a time, from the face of the serpent.**_--Revelation 12:14, King James Bible

_**Does it matter, Cassandra, **_

_**Whether people believe your bitter fountain?**_

_**Truly men hate the truth; they'd liefer**_

_**meet a tiger on the road. **_

--Cassandra, Robinson Jeffers

_**Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe, Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast; Is that portentous phrase, "I told you so." **_--Don Juan (Canto XIV), Lord Byron

Cassandra pounded on the bars of the cage, yelling with anger and frustration. She wanted out. She'd been trapped in the Horsemen's prison for four days; she was frightened and furious and bored and both of her thousand dollar designer boots were crumbled on the submarine base floor where she'd unsuccessfully flung them at passing Horsemen of the Apocalypse --yet all four of her Immortal enemies continued to ignore her. Perhaps they meant to build up her anticipation for whatever torture was to come.

Cassandra considered her options and found them wanting. Her Voice was useless here; she could not pick the lock, and even if she were to somehow escape the cage she'd still need to escape the base.

Frustrated, the witch pounded again on the bars.

"You really want attention that badly?" Methos' voice reached her ears just after his Presence bombarded her senses.

"What do _you _want?" Cassandra spat.

"Considering the amount of _noise _you're making, shouldn't I be the one asking that?" Methos retorted mildly as he took a seat on the cage platform. Cassandra drew back to the other side of the cage, putting as much space between them as she could. Methos appeared briefly amused.

"You're going to die, Horseman," Cassandra promised her former master. "Even if I have to take your head with my bare hands."

Methos sighed. "You have no chance of getting out of there, and you know it."

Cassandra stared at him and shook her head slowly. "You of all people, Methos, should know that there is always a chance."

"You're right," Methos replied thoughtfully, "But I'm going to be sure you're not around to take that chance."

Cassandra laughed with bitter understanding. "And you said you'd changed."

"Actually I had. But," he mocked her earlier words, "You of all people should know that ancient memories have great power. And it's so _easy_ to fall back into the old ways, isn't it? Still, I might have helped you if you'd believed me."

"Believe _you_?" Cassandra spat.

Methos shrugged. "That was the idea."

"I'll never believe anything you say," Cassandra said flatly, moving further away from him. Methos watched her with the tiniest of smiles on his lips. The witch could remember those lips on her own, so long ago, remember those lips roaming over her body. She didn't want to think about it now, but the images persisted cruelly--and all the more cruelly for the times when they seemed sweet.

_I hate him._

"That wasn't always the case," Methos said.

Cassandra started, for it seemed that he was responding to her thoughts before she remembered her spoken words.

"I believed you because you stole my mind. But I'm not your sorry little slave any more."

"Of course she's not!" a new voice and Presence chimed into as Kronos entered, smiling brightly. "Only a stupid woman who'll soon regret ever having been born."

Methos looked exasperated. "I wasn't planning on expending quite that much effort. We have work to do, Kronos, and torture is boring. "

"You're trying to stave off the inevitable. But her time will come soon," Kronos said.

"She's an Immortal, not a toy," Methos said irritably.

"Oh, I don't know about that. . . ." Kronos grinned at the woman. "She looks like one to me."

"Scum!" Cassandra barked contemptuously.

"Still, a perfectly good prisoner to torment, far more resilient than any mortal--and we've left her in peace," Kronos mused. He had his usual air of impending revelation about him, which annoyed Cassandra to no end.

"No need to break out the burning pokers yet, but I do have something in mind. I'm getting a bit restless, you see," the scarred Immortal offered.

"I hadn't noticed," Methos deadpanned.

"I'm sure you hadn't," Kronos returned lightly. "Perhaps the witch would appreciate a nice visit--a chat?--with her good friend _Duncan_. I'll bet _Duncan_ is anxious to see her, too."

"You have him?" Cassandra demanded. A slow panic began to pound behind her eyes, beating out a steady rhythm of doom. They couldn't have caught the Highlander.

"Mmm, yes," Kronos nodded. "I'm happy to say that MacLeod is quite--resilient. It's always fun to break the stubborn ones, the ones that _think_ they're strong."

"That is why you survive," Methos interrupted, piercing Cassandra with his viper's eyes. "You bend. You know that you are Time's slave and you do not fight it."

"I'm no one's slave! I belong to myself!" Cassandra could not help spitting. Just as in her youth it was Methos' cool observations, rather than Kronos' violent enthusiasm, that broke her calm. She felt herself falling ever more deeply back into the ancient patterns.

Methos smiled with an odd sadness. "Everyone is a slave to something."

He turned to walk away, stopping only briefly when Kronos inquired sharply, "I'm taking the witch to MacLeod. Are you coming?"

"Not this time, brother."

* * *

Duncan MacLeod curled up in his bonds, instinctively trying to protect his body, knowing that Kronos would soon return. The Highlander hadn't broken yet, but while his will was strong he could feel his body betray him a little bit more every time Kronos came to him. The other Immortal was a tenacious man, and he did have a few thousand years of experience to draw on.

The Horseman's strong Presence washed over the Highlander, and he forced himself to uncurl his limbs, refusing to show his weakness.

"You have a visitor!" Kronos announced dramatically as he flung open the door, back lit by the corridor to reveal the struggling woman whose hair he gripped in his hand. He shoved Cassandra in the room before him, only to jerk her back against him like a dog on a leash. When the woman let out an involuntary cry of pain, Kronos chuckled.

"What-- no threats, no righteous indignation?" he asked when MacLeod said nothing. "Perhaps he doesn't want you anymore, witch," Kronos mocked the woman, but like MacLeod Cassandra said nothing.

"I'm appalled by this lack of concern for your fellow Immortal," Kronos informed them sadly as he dragged the kicking Cassandra to the wall, intent on binding her next to MacLeod.

"Go to hell," Cassandra snapped. She was still fighting to free herself when Kronos backhanded her sharply enough to send her tumbling to the floor, and when she tried to rise he stepped on her hand, applying enough pressure to break bones.

"No much of an effort, witch," Kronos lamented, dragging her back up by her long hair and binding her despite her struggles. He hummed brightly as he worked and stepped back when he finished, admiring the view until Cassandra spat at him. The thick glob of phlegm landed on Kronos' cheek, and his eyes slowly narrowed as he wiped it away, all of the usual jolly humour draining from his expression.

"You're going to wish you hadn't done that," the Horseman told Cassandra very softly, and his pale blue eyes glittered like cold, old stars.

"Leave her alone," MacLeod growled.

Kronos glacial eyes flitted over to the Highlander, and the jolly smile returned without warning. "Oh, but don't think I don't have something for you too, Highlander. You remember that little surprise my brother so _helpfully_ told you about?"

MacLeod stared at the Horseman.

"The virus, yes?" Kronos clarified. "Well, it wouldn't be right not to make use it of, especially after all of the long hours of work I put into engineering it," he chuckled. "If only the British government knew what they were really paying me to do in their shiny laboratories."

"I can't believe they'd hire a madman like you," MacLeod sneered.

Kronos eyed his prisoner with condescending amusement. "Powerful men are always mad. What's one more madman in the madhouse to them?"

"What are you going to do with the virus, Kronos?" MacLeod demanded hoarsely.

"Show it to the world, of course—and watch the world _tremble_."

* * *

Methos paused only a moment before he unlocked the small dark room where MacLeod was kept. A dim sliver of grey light illuminated the interior as the door swung open, revealing two people on the wall. Cassandra was still there, and Methos knew why. Doubtless Kronos had not been satisfied with psychological torture, and had moved on to something a bit more tangible.

Methos slipped into the dark room and felt both prisoners stir from what was surely fitful slumber. The eldest Immortal was utterly silent as he approached MacLeod. He stared into the other Immortal's vengeful eyes and saw in them he saw everything he'd admired in the Highlander. He saw the man who had been his friend-- but the problem was that no matter how well he knew MacLeod, MacLeod had never known Methos. The Highlander had only ever known what the older Immortal had allowed him to know.

"I'm sorry, MacLeod," he whispered, his voice piercing the silence in the moment before he slammed a needle into the large vein in MacLeod's neck. The man slumped, unconscious, and Methos efficiently slid a knife up into the Highlander's ribs. His prisoner safely dead, Methos swiftly worked to unbind him.

"What are you doing with him?" Cassandra hissed.

Methos said nothing, and the woman angrily repeated her inquiry.

"Keep your voice down-- unless you want the others to wake up. I'm getting you both out of here."

"I don't believe you."

"You don't have to."

MacLeod finally unbound on the floor, Methos turned to Cassandra. "Your turn."

He saw the intent in her eyes just before she opened her mouth to scream, and slapped his hand over the woman's mouth before the damning shriek could emerge. Ignoring the sharp bite the she gave him, he coolly injected the needle's remaining contents into her neck before ensuring that she, too, would remain dead for as long as necessary.

Unbinding Cassandra hastily, Methos slung her over his shoulder and propped MacLeod's limp form upon on his other side. Their combined weight almost floored him, and he let out a quiet groan before he slowly dragged them out of the room. Shutting the door quietly behind him with his leg, he heard the lock snick into place before he continued laboriously out of the base.

* * *

Cassandra awoke with a start, found herself unbound and sat up quickly to take in her surroundings. A torn down ruin that had once been an industrial building of some sort stood about one hundred metres away, surrounded by endless pavement, while further dark, empty buildings lurked menacingly in the distance. Not a single passer-by disturbed the stillness, and Cassandra instinctively shivered.

Footsteps sounded and Immortal Presence hummed in the night. Cassandra tried to scramble to her feet, but fell back down, still weak with the drug.

"Hello, Cassandra," her greatest enemy said softly. He sounded distracted and almost kind.

The woman drew in a long draught of cool, crisp night air. "Methos."

"You know why we're here," he sighed as he lowered himself to the ground, sitting cross-legged on the ground beside her.

"You're going to take my head," she said flatly.

"It's for the best. I don't expect you to be grateful-- God knows I wouldn't be in your place, but it's better than being Kronos' toy."

"Don't expect me to believe that you feel for me," Cassandra spat.

"But I do," he whispered. "In the ancient days I allowed you to escape, and I threw you into the Seacouver river rather than let Kronos kill you. But now there will be no escaping my brothers and the only mercy I can offer you is the true death."

"I'd rather die a thousand deaths than accept your charity."

Methos' level gaze was pitiless. "I'm not asking your permission."

Cassandra opened her mouth to retort-- and stopped. It all seemed so pointless, suddenly: this banter, this show of arrogance, this battle of words. Words wouldn't stop the inevitable. The Fates could not be staved off forever--but with Immortal tenacity the final effects of the drug were bleeding out of her system. She could feel her strength returning, steadiness replacing weakness in her limbs. She tensed to stand up, to attempt an escape, only to freeze when Methos coolly aimed an elegant black pistol at her head.

"Don't," he said calmly.

"Don't?" Cassandra screamed. It was too bitterly unfair. Even after three thousand years, her destiny was still in the hands of Death. "Don't? What gives you the right to say _don't_? What gives you the right to _decide_!"

She felt the tears in her eyes and recognised her hysteria for what it was, but couldn't seem to stop the sobs that shook her body. She shuddered and curled up. Some distant part of her demanded that she stand on her feet and die with dignity, but the part of her that had never stopped being a slave, the part that had never made peace with the past, insisted on lying down and taking it.

Minutes passed and her sobs slowly quieted. She still felt Methos's unshakable eyes on her and so, gathering the control to speak, the woman asked, "Aren't you going to give me a sword, Methos? Aren't you even going to let me fight for my life?"

"No," her former master said simply. "We both know it would be a travesty. Face the end with honesty, Cassandra."

Slowly the menacing tattoo of long remembered drums started to pound out their regular rhythm in Cassandra's brain. She heard the quiet rush of night time traffic somewhere very far in the distance. She felt the crunch of gravel under her knees. She heard the scrape of sword on sheath as Death drew his long, thin blade. And kneeling with her eyes to the ground, she saw moonlight glitter on tiny, breathtaking shards of silver glass caught in the black pits and cracks of the pavement.

End Part 2

* * *

Yes, well. That was a week. What are you talking about?

Of course, as you probably all know but I feel the need to restate, in Greek mythology Cassandra was the daughter of King Priam and Queen Hecuba of Troy. Said to be the second most beautiful woman in the world after Helen, Cassandra caught the eye of the god Apollo. He was so struck by her beauty that he granted her the ability to see into the future. Unfortunately she rejected his advances, and he subsequently cursed her, decreeing that no one would ever _believe _her prophecies. Among other significant prophecies, Cassandra accurately predicted her own murder, along with the murder of King Agamemnon, at the hands of Agamemnon's jealous wife Clytemnestra, but of course no one believed her.

**Anonymous reviews will be answered here**

Sapphire: Thank you for the nice, long review. I was very happy to receive it! In many ways Kronos and MacLeod are rather similar characters--they simply have different moral compasses (and senses of humour!) so it's easy to set Methos up as a balance there. I'm glad you think that I'm using the Revelation quotes well--it's a lot of fun quoting doomsday prophecy!

Thanks again for the review, and I hope that you enjoyed the second part as well.


	3. Kronos

**Part 3: Kronos**

**_And I saw, and behold a white horse; and he that sat on him had a bow, and a crown was given unto him, and he went forth conquering and to conquer. _**--Revelation 6:2, King James Bible

**"**_**Is that a bullet-proof vest? See, that's so insulting. That's like saying I'm not smart enough to shoot you in the head."** _--Seven Up, Janet Evanovich

Kronos was dreaming:

_He stands on the edge of the cliff, looking down on a world of steady lights and blinking strangeness. The pull of the lights is strong, but the warrior instinctively knows that should he make his way down below, it will be a long, long time before he comes back. _

_Another stands beside him suddenly, and though this other does not appear as Methos does in the waking world, Kronos quite absolutely knows that he is the same man. _

_"What wonders it must hold! Think of it, brother. So many things to explore," Methos enthuses. _

_Kronos shakes his head. "It's a trap," he announces. _

_"I know it is, but it can't kill us-- not really."_

_"We'll be stuck there for a long time," Kronos argues, but he knows that he will descend in the end-- even with the certainty that those distant lights will burn as fiercely as they dazzle._

_"We'll be there together," Methos says, as though that were all that matters. _

_"But you'll stay with me?" Kronos asks, uncharacteristically worried. _

_"Of course," his brother answers simply, and starts down to the lights._

_Though he is not sure he truly believes Methos, Kronos follows him anyway._

* * *

The Horseman woke with a troubled mind, certain that he had been dreaming, but unable to remember the images. Something to do with his most inscrutable of brothers...

Absently, he dressed before wandering the short distance to the base's small break room. He flicked on the radio as he entered, then threw himself into a chair to listen to the morning news. He was disappointed to discover that the report appeared to largely concern France's national debt.

Discontent, the ancient Immortal wandered over to the kitchenette to pour milk into a breakfast confetti containing a rather devastatingly high percentage of sugar. Kronos stirred the sticky, colourful morass in his bowl, thoroughly drenching the pieces of cereal before scooping up a large amount and eating it.

A minute later, the distant but unmistakable sound of a sliding metal door reached the Immortal's ears and he paused in mid-scoop, wondering who was entering the base. Silas' snores had been all too audible when Kronos had passed his room, so it couldn't be the big blond. He didn't know about Caspian, but as Kronos set his bowl on the counter something warned him to be silent.

He slipped out of the kitchenette on socked feet, catching the edge of an Immortal Presence while the other kept just out of sight. Kronos' eyes narrowed and he picked up the pace to a jarring run, stopping only when he saw his quarry.

"Methos. Late night?" he asked sharply.

"I don't suppose you'd believe that I went out to watch the sunrise?" Methos asked with weary irony.

"Surely you can do better than that?" Kronos sneered.

"More _interesting, _I suppose. Not more _plausible," _Methos mused academically.

"I'm glad that our continued brotherhood is to be based on as much honesty as ever," the other Immortal said slowly. For no reason that he could specify, Kronos was suddenly angered by his brother's characteristic, slippery manner. "Change would be too disturbing."

"You know; you were right. We _do_ think alike," Methos said happily.

"Enough. Where were you?"

"Admiring the impressive skyline."

"Now why don't I believe you?" Kronos grated.

Methos suddenly became quite serious. "Come with me," the older Immortal said cryptically, turning around and splashing away through the ubiquitous puddles of water. Kronos followed grimly, his unshod feet rapidly turning numb in the pools of icy liquid. He tensed when they reached the impromptu prison where he had been keeping Cassandra and MacLeod. He could sense no Immortal presence.

Methos reached into his pocket; removed a familiar key and unlocked the door. Kronos pushed into the room and saw exactly what he expected: nothing.

"I couldn't let you keep them," Methos said softly behind him. "MacLeod was my friend, and I owed Cassandra." He laughed darkly. "I owed them both more than I gave them."

"And what was it you gave them?" Kronos demanded, spinning around to lean threateningly towards Methos.

"The only mercy that I could," Methos said. His face was as unreadable as a mask.

"They were mine. You stole them," Kronos declared, whipping out a long dagger and going for Methos' throat without warning.

His attack was blocked by a similar blade, moving with identical speed. "I thought we never raise a blade against each other, Kronos," Methos whispered mockingly.

The scarred Immortal laughed. "Just like we don't steal from each other, eh?" Frustrated and betrayed, Kronos retracted his dagger and began pacing with tigerish intensity. "You're one of us," he barked. "Why do you care about _them_?"

"Because returning to the Horsemen doesn't mean that I don't have friends--friends who mean something to me!"

"Your friends? Or _MacLeod's_ friends? You betrayed him—you think—you think his friends will welcome you back into the fold, Methos?" Kronos dug pointedly.

"I like to keep my options open," the other Immortal snapped-- but he could not hide his wounded eyes.

Kronos shrugged restlessly. "It was best when we had only each other."

"You're deluding yourself, Kronos!" Methos drew out his long vowels with furious contempt."You think we didn't fight before? Then you sure have a bad memory there, because _I _remember the fights, the threats, the petty contests over booty and women—oh, _yeah_, it was perfect—the perfect brotherhood, sacrosanct and untouchable!" he spat mockingly.

"It was perfect to _me_!" Kronos shouted, pushed past endurance by his brother's rending sarcasm. Breathing heavily, he observed as Methos' face closed up and became inscrutable again. "It was perfect to me," Kronos repeated more quietly. "I've been trying to go back for three thousand years, and now..."

"You don't think that's a little sad?" Methos asked sardonically.

Kronos smiled frigidly. "It's what I want, brother—and sooner or later I always get what I want."

After offering one final, furious glance to his narrow-eyed companion, Kronos stalked back to his breakfast.

* * *

Methos sat clicking away at Kronos' state-of-the-art computer, checking if the Watchers had any inkling of what the Horsemen might be up to. There seemed to be nothing. Kronos had no Watcher by virtue of being too dangerous. Caspian's Watcher had been stationed as a nurse at the asylum in Bucharest, and Silas had been far too remote and stationary to warrant one when Watchers seemed to be dropping like flies in numerous Watcher-Immortal conflicts. Methos of course had no Watcher, and Cassandra's, he noted as he examined her file, had lost her trail days ago. That left Joe as the only practical source of information, and he appeared to be playing his cards quite close to the chest.

Sighing, Methos clicked away from Cassandra's file and went back to the main page to check his e-mail. There were the usual friendly notes from the few casual friends he'd made in his years with the Watchers, a check-up request from his "boss" in the research department, and a message from Joe.

***ADAM! READ THIS NOW!***

Demanding as ever, but nicely discreet. Good old Joe.

* * *

The Watcher reached under the counter and picked up the phone.

"Joe Dawson here." His was tense, anticipatory. Was it MacLeod on the other end?

"Hey, Joe," a familiar voice said. Not MacLeod.

"Methos," the Watcher hissed onto the mouthpiece. "Where are you?"

"Around," the oldest Immortal said evasively. "You e-mailed me to phone you."

"Yeah. I did, didn't I. Look, Methos, I haven't heard from MacLeod in days. I figured he was busy with your old buddies, so I didn't try and get a hold of him. But the Watchers haven't seen hide or hair of him these past couple of days, and they've been looking. Cassandra's gone, too."

Methos was silent for a minute. Joe waited impatiently; he was just about to demand a response when the Immortal spoke.

"Joe, Cassandra's dead. I didn't get there in time to stop it. I don't know if MacLeod knows yet."

Joe narrowed his eyes. "Where was he when it happened?"

"Looking for Kronos, I assume. But Kronos was with Silas and Caspian, grabbing Cassandra from the hotel she was staying at. They took her head soon after."

"They?" he asked suspiciously.

"Well, Kronos."

"So you're all together again, huh? What are you planning on doing, Methos? Staying with them?" Joe demanded, growing angry with the unspoken implications. He had no right to judge what had happened three thousand years ago, in another age and time, and hadn't tried to. But this was the 1990s, and if Methos hadn't tried to run from the other Horsemen yet...well, that said more than words.

"I'm _planning _on keeping my head--preferably without it being handed to me on a silver platter!"

"Yeah, well, just make sure you don't let Kronos take MacLeod's while you're at it, huh?" Joe snapped back.

"Oh, don't worry, Joe. There's no chance of that," Methos chuckled.

_What's that supposed to mean?_

The bar was filling up around Joe as the evening crowd came in, and he was not enthusiastic about continuing the conversation where so many people might hear it.

"Listen, Methos. I gotta move to another phone. Can you wait a minute?"

"No can do, Joe. I'm busy. But I'll keep you updated."

Methos hung up, and the dial tone went flat.

"Damn! Son of a bitch!" Joe cursed loudly, drawing several amused looks from his patrons.

* * *

Silas left the laboratory smiling. The monkeys were really nice little creatures, and he enjoyed spending time with them. It was certainly better than suffering through the tension between Methos and Kronos, or waiting for Caspian to insult him. But there was never any avoiding such things for long. Silas couldn't remember a time when his brothers had not fought with each other, nor a time when he hadn't fought with Caspian.

This he could simply accept as the way of things, but the continued delays... hundreds of years of living in the forest was one thing, but he hadn't expected anything to happen there. Now that the Horsemen were reunited, they should be fighting!

But Methos insisted on complete accuracy, sitting in front of the computer with his eternal research. Silas remembered the slightly surprised looks he'd received when he'd had recognised the modern machine. Well, after all, he had been wearing modern clothing when Methos and Kronos had found him, cutting wood with a rather modern axe. He may have spent most of his time in the woods, but he had made his way to nearby settlements once in a while, for supplies.

Silas walked into the break room just in time to see Methos put the telephone receiver on the hook and begin to shut down the computer.

"Methos," Silas greeted, taking a seat on one of the wooden chairs.

"Hello, Silas," Methos answered absently as the monitor turned black. The older Immortal sighed and turned away from the device, seating himself on a chair away from the computer. He shifted uncomfortably for a minute or two before finally giving up.

"These chairs are hard as rocks," Methos groaned. "What was Kronos thinking?"

"Probably something motivational," Silas suggested.

For some reason this sent Methos to laughing quietly until Silas, caught up in his brother's mirth, joined in.

"Very goal oriented, is our Kronos," Methos spoke through his merriment, his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners.

Immortal presence hit them, and Caspian walked in.

"What's so funny?" the black haired Immortal asked.

The other two Immortals looked at each other blankly, and Methos shrugged.

"It's a 'you had to be there,' moment," he suggested.

Caspian grunted doubtfully and sat down.

"Damn, this chair is uncomfortable."

He looked very confused when Methos smirked and Silas bellowed with laughter.

* * *

Two days later and all four Horsemen sat gathered around the small round table, staring at each other warily.

"All right, first thing's first—we've got to realistic here," Methos started. "This isn't two thousand BC anymore. It's isn't even _one_ thousand BC. We can't just sweep out of the sun, decimate some village and not expect anyone to care. And you--" he leaned forward and pointed firmly at Kronos "--should know better. You're a _scientist, _and you don't know what kind of reprisals to expect?" Methos laughed incredulously.

Kronos frowned. "I know what to expect. That just means we have to be better than them."

"How?" Methos demanded. "They've got tanks, armies, poison gasses, bloody...nuclear bombs! How are we supposed to be better than them?"

"Well, that's where you come in—isn't it?" Kronos challenged.

"It's not that _easy,_" Methos hissed. He flopped back in his chair, frustration written all over his mobile features, while Caspian and Silas stared at the two older Horseman, their eyes flickering slowly between them like lazy, hungry cats.

"And if it were easy, I wouldn't need you," Kronos shrugged.

Methos covered his face with his flat, opened palms and rubbed his eyes. Then he took a deep breath, leaned back on the feet of his chair and stared at the ceiling pensively.

"Don't step on my foot, dimwit!" Caspian growled at Silas.

"I didn't step it," Silas snarled back.

"Silence!" Kronos barked at them.

Methos' chair fell back into place with a _clunk_. "Just like the good old days, eh Kronos?" He smiled with teeth.

"Methos..." Kronos warned.

Methos chuckled. "All right. I have a plan. Not sure you want to hear it, though."

"Oh?" Kronos asked, casually.

"Not as interactive as you'd like, but it'll get the job done. Just need to think where the best place to start would be...." Methos trailed off thoughtfully. His body slumped in his chair, and he gazed sightlessly at the wall.

"Start what?" Kronos demanded.

"Give a man a minute to think," Methos said irritably.

Kronos stared at his brother and slowly started beating out a tattoo on the edge of the table. Silas sighed and stared longingly in the direction of the laboratory, while Caspian started cleaning his nails with a suspiciously brown knife blade.

"Well, are you ready?" Kronos finally demanded.

Methos looked up slowly. "Hmm? Oh, yeah--as ready as we'll ever be, I suppose," he drawled.

"Good. It was beginning to look like you'd never finish thinking," Kronos snapped.

Methos shrugged, regarding his brother blandly. "You could have stopped me any time. Of course, then we'd be running blind. . . . "

"With plenty of cliffs waiting," Caspian murmured wickedly.

Kronos glared at his black-haired brother, annoyed with the interruption.

"Quite," Methos finished dryly. Caspian turned his face away from the table to smirk into his sleeve.

"It can't be at the same fountain as before," Silas contributed. "They'll be watching it. There was a bomb threat, after all."

"He's right," Caspian nodded grudgingly.

"It's not going to be a fountain at all. It's not even going to be in France," Methos corrected.

"Oh?" Kronos lifted an eyebrow.

"I know how much you were looking forward to a dramatic reign of terror, Kronos, but we can't afford to draw attention to ourselves that way. No, it has to start small."

"The fountain _is_ small," Kronos retorted.

Methos nodded slowly. "_If_ it's only a threat."

Kronos leaned back. "Explain."

Methos grinned slightly. "You really wanna be a bureaucrat, Kronos? Rule the world one piece of paperwork at a time? Or you do you want blood?"

"You know the answer to that."

"Right—then why are interested in making threats? The only way you're going to get the old days back is to bring them back yourself, and you're not going to get that by issuing ultimatums—you'll get it by _using_ the virus."

Kronos narrowed his eyes and blew out a slow breath. He recognised the truth in Methos' words, recognised that some hidden part of him had known it from the very first day he started developing the virus. It had simply taken his brilliant brother to point it out....

"So what's the plan?"

"The plan is we take the virus to some out of the way country where no one will care who dies, and we set it loose. Let it get a head start killing people no one will miss and the mortals will have less time to start looking for a cure."

Kronos smiled wickedly. "A cure won't work—not the way they'll hope."

Methos shrugged. "Maybe not, but we won't take that chance. In Europe they'll notice it more quickly, maybe be able to isolate it. That's not what you want."

"And then?" Caspian demanded.

"And then what?" Methos asked coolly. His green eyes flickered with affectionate contempt.

"What happens after we set it loose?"

"The virus spreads. We help it along, if need be. Millions die, and the infrastructure of modern society collapses and _voilà--_ instant Bronze Age. Then the Horsemen can do whatever they want."

"It can't be that easy," Caspian said doubtfully. "You said it yourself."

Methos snorted and stood up. "Whatever you say. How about you get your little toy ready, Kronos? We have a flight to catch."

"Where are we going?" Kronos asked.

Methos caught his eye. "Mongolia."

"But eventually we need to spread it to Europe," Kronos reminded him. "Only when they see it leave the poor regions of the Earth and begin to scour the very heart of civilisation will they panic as they feel the Grim Reaper breathing down their necks!"

"I didn't know I had that much reach," Methos commented flippantly.

"Shut up," Kronos snarled, smashing a fist on the table; finally losing his temper as his presumptuous brother's insouciance pushed him past endurance.

"If you say so," Methos shrugged.

"Are you finished?" Kronos demanded.

"Are you finished sulking?" Methos asked, undeniable challenge in his voice. "It's done. Let it be."

"You stole what belonged to me."

"I fulfilled a debt. You going to keep bringing it up for the _next_ thousand years?"

"It's those prisoners that Methos dragged through the base, isn't it?" Caspian asked lazily, looking up from the table where he'd been dragging a long piece of yarn about in ambiguous patterns.

"You know about this?" Kronos asked sharply.

"I was watching; I was up late. I must have been too far away for Methos to sense. I thought that you'd had Methos take them away. . . but then the next day you were arguing, and I knew what had happened. What does it matter? They're dead, and we have mortals to kill."

A growl escaped Kronos. "Next time feel free to tell me when you see something unimportant!"

"He won't have to," Methos said reminded him coolly. "MacLeod and Cassandra were loose ends, and they're gone."

"And MacLeod's friends?" Kronos asked pointedly.

"Aren't a problem. They know nothing. But..." he trailed off, staring into the distance.

Kronos waited, angry and shuttered, but _wanting_ whatever Methos said to change his mind.

"They are my witnesses," Methos whispered with slow drama. "They are the ones will wonder if they could have stopped it, if they could have prevented the Apocalypse. They are the ones who will look to me to save them and die with betrayal in their eyes and the name of Death on their cracked and bleeding lips."

The words were almost hypnotic and, hearing them, Kronos smiled without bitterness for the first time in days.

"The witch and MacLeod—they were only slaves after all," he said casually, while his eyes conveyed a thousand secrets to the brother who understood them all.

* * *

Methos arranged for a private plane flown by a French smuggler. All four Horsemen sat in the cargo hold while the earth rapidly shrank away. Kronos savoured the hum of the engines and cradled the innocuous black Pandora's Box in his lap. Eventually he fell asleep.

Hours later he woke up. The lights had been dimmed and he could hear Silas snoring. Caspian, too, was slumped over. Only Methos was awake, his profile turned to Kronos; his green eyes fixed on the dark wall next to him.

"Can't sleep?" Kronos murmured.

Methos turned his head slowly. "I guess not."

"Tell me what you're thinking about."

"_A Night at the Opera_."

"Excuse me?"

"It's an album by Queen—the band," Methos clarified. "Great album, one of their best."

"I know who Queen are," Kronos retorted. "Why are you thinking about them?"

Methos shrugged. "Like I said—great band. I'm gonna miss rock and roll."

Kronos offered a crooked smile. "I prefer the Stones."

Methos chuckled. "I would have thought you were more a Black Sabbath man."

"I appreciate the sentiment, but I can't abide Ozzy's voice. Jagger's more listenable—and not too bad in the hell-raising department himself."

"Hmm. Can't argue with that. I met them, you know—the Stones," Methos said.

"Yeah?"

"Uh huh. '68, I think it was. Stuck around for a few parties, a few drinks, a few women—you know how it goes."

Kronos chuckled, not really caring if his brother was making it up or not. "Oh, I know."

Methos turned back to his dark wall and Kronos closed his eyelids until it looked like he was going back to sleep. But through a sliver-thin aperture he watched his brother's smooth face—watched it for hours. Methos never moved at all.

Eventually Kronos must have fallen back asleep, though, because the next thing he knew it was morning and their plane was bumping down onto an open stretch of field.

"Okay, _monsieurs, nous sommes arriv_è_s," _the pilot called said, manically cheerful as he exited the cockpit.

"Brilliant!" Kronos exclaimed as he kicked Caspian awake. "_Brother, kill our mortal friend here_," he said in very rusty Assyrian.

Caspian's eyes snapped open eagerly. "_Really?_"

Kronos smiled. "_We don't want any witnesses_."

The pilot was frowning, unable to understand the exchange, but sensing that something was very wrong. The man was smart enough to flee when Caspian drew a long knife and grinned at him with disturbingly sharp teeth.

Caspian laughed; shouted after him: "Run!" and took up the chase.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later and the other three Horsemen found Caspian in the middle of the open field. He had hamstrung the mortal and was now carving off large pieces of skin and eating them. The man's screams were beyond pitiful, and the gleam of encroaching madness was already shining in his eyes.

When the mortal saw Kronos, Methos, and Silas he began pleading for help. Kronos chuckled a little and winked at Caspian, who grinned back through a mouthful of bloody teeth. Silas looked only vaguely interested.

Then Methos slowly knelt down next to the mortal; leaned forward, and stared into his eyes. The man's pleading almost instantly stopped. Like a rabbit caught in the jaws of a snake, he quivered with terror and pain, but made no sound.

Methos uttered deep, soothing whispers; brushed his fingers comfortingly across the the dying man's face and stroked his brown hair as softly as if the pilot were his own son. Then Methos grasped his head and turned it in Caspian's direction so that, during his last few breathing moments, the man could watch himself be eaten alive.

* * *

They hiked to the out of the way village Methos specified and put the virus in the water supply before sleeping off their jet-lag in the local inn. Ten hours later they woke up to the news that some sort of plague had struck the village. Already the very young and the very old were dying. The national health service had been called, but were slow to respond. They weren't expected for a day or two, by which time Kronos expected half the village to be dead.

The virus exceeded his expectations. By the time help arrived, more than three quarters of the villagers were corpses. The army was called in soon after that, and they did what the Horsemen expected—eliminated the village to prevent the spread of the plague. It didn't matter, though, because it was already in the water—which the soldiers also used. So they were infected as well and would bring the virus with them when they left.

On Methos' recommendation, the Horsemen avoided the spotlight, slipping away from under the army's nose. Another pilot waited for them in another field, and though Kronos did not know how Methos had managed to arrange their flight, he did not really care. What mattered was that his plague was working.

* * *

Back in Bordeaux several weeks later, the reports finally reached France. No one in western Europe cared about a plague in outer Mongolia, but when it spread to Russia it started making the news. The stereo system babbled frantically about the virus. Scientists had been quick enough to discover that it was waterborne, and the populace had been ordered to stop using its indoor plumbing and any open water sources other than rain. The Russian government also shipped in massive quantities of sterilised and inspected water, and for a while it worked: the plague slowed down.

For one week the doctors breathed sighs of relief and studied the disease, searching for a cure. But on the eighth day the plague started to gain speed again, and scientists discovered that it had made its way into the air.

Finally, on the twelfth day, the doctors thought they'd found a cure, and administered it to one of the sick. The man's symptoms did clear, but he died anyway. During the autopsy, they found that the cure had worked, but because the virus progressed so rapidly through the man's body the cure had killed the patient along with the disease.

The news finally assured the anxious populace that there was no way that this sickness could possibly spread to the clean, sanitised and well-regulated Continental mainland—there was no need to panic.

* * *

Kronos turned off the stereo with a negligent flick of his wrist. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face and he leaned back in his chair, rocking into the wall.

"Pestilence ravages the Earth," he announced, eyes glowing.

"Now all we need are the wild beasts," Methos quipped.

"I thought Silas already had a pet?" Caspian inquired innocently, eyes wide.

"We need only look at you to see a wild beast, Caspian," Silas snarled.

"Enough!" Kronos snapped when Caspian opened his mouth to retort. "No bickering."

"I do appreciate five minutes of peace every thousand years or so," Methos murmured. "I don't always get them, though."

"The virus is gaining international attention. I do wonder who let that leak," Kronos chuckled. "I would have thought they'd do everything possible to keep it in the bag--but it works to our advantage. They aren't expecting it here yet. If it appeared, they'd panic even more."

Methos smiled mysteriously. "Already ahead of you, brother."

"What have you done?" Kronos demanded breathlessly.

Methos held up a familiar remote control, and his eyes glittered. "Activated the vial in the reservoir."

Slowly, Kronos clapped, giving credit where it was due. "I'd forgotten about that, brother."

"I know," Methos said. "But I never did."

"You never forget anything. That's why you make the plans," Kronos shrugged.

The other man shook his head and laughed. "And you never lose your appetite for chaos, Kronos. That's why you're the leader."

"I am; aren't I?" Kronos said smugly, jumping up with his sword in his hand. Without warning, he brought the sword around to his brother's throat. Wordlessly, he stared at the other man. Methos didn't seem very surprised by Kronos' action; a small, clever smile hung on his smug mouth.

"Want something, brother?" he asked.

Casually, Kronos withdrew his sword. "I'll have everything I want—soon enough."

End Part 3

* * *

Sorry about the delay. I had to do some significant re-writing of this chapter, so it took a bit longer. Of course, I don't feel too badly because I did give you two for the price of one in the first week:) Of course, this chapter is so long I'll probably be picking errors out of it for days.

You may have noticed that Kronos now has the Revelation quote I assigned to Methos the first time around. This is because it is actually the quote for Pestilence, but apparently both Death and Pestilence have similarly coloured horses. Someone please tell me what the difference is between a white horse and a pale horse? I suppose Methos should rightfully have some sort of light grey horse, but everyone gives him a white one.

Anyway, hope you liked this chapter. I had fun writing it-- especially the creepy bits:D

Reviews, pretty please with a cherry on top!

**Answers for anon reviews of Part 2:**

**sapphire: **Hi! Thanks so much for your review of part two. Methos often does things out of a sense of practicality, rather than because he wants to do them, but I don't claim to understand the mind of a 5000 year old man;) Glad you liked this part!

* * *


	4. Joe

**Part 4: Joe**

_**What thou seest, write in a book, and send it unto the seven churches that are in Asia; unto Ephesus, and unto Smyrna, and unto Pergamos, and unto Thyatira, and unto Sardis, and unto Philadelphia, and unto Laodicea**__._ --Revelation 1: 11, King James Bible

_**And that's the thing about people who mean everything they say: they think everyone else does, too**_. --The Kite Runner, Khaled Hosseini

Joe Dawson looked up from his laptop computer as Richard Ryan strode into his Seacouver bar.

"Joe?" Richie called.

"Right here," the Watcher responded.

"Hey, Joe, how are you?"

"Just peachy," Dawson said tersely.

Richie hesitated a moment. "Is something wrong?"

Joe sighed. "Nah. Just. . .well, some people I knew didn't get out of France fast enough, and what with what's been going on there. . . they didn't make it."

Richie grimaced his understanding. "Oh, man. I'm sorry."

"Not your fault," the older man said heavily. "So what can I do for you?"

"Yeah, I was looking for Mac. I went by the dojo, and he wasn't there. Do you know where he is?"

Joe took refuge in his drink, looking down for a few seconds before answering. "I forgot. You haven't been here for all the bullshit. Off searching for the meaning of life," he muttered, almost to himself.

"Yeah, well, I didn't find it. Still looking," Richie quipped. "What's this bullshit you're talking about?"

"Methos," Joe snorted, as if that explained everything. "Seems his deep past is a lot darker than anyone suspected. An old friend of his came to town and the whole place went straight to hell. Look, this is a long story. Usually I'd say it's not my story to tell, but this time I'll make an exception. Pull up a chair—actually, get yourself a drink first. You might need it," Dawson snorted.

A worried expression settled on Richie's face. Not bothering with the drink, he took a seat beside the Watcher. "Is Mac involved in this?"

"Is MacLeod ever _not_ involved?" Joe scoffed.

Richie laughed shortly. "Point taken. Okay, let's hear this big story."

* * *

"So--so these guys, these 'Four Horsemen,' are the real thing? Reign of fire, end of the world—all that jazz?" Richie demanded incredulously when Dawson had finished telling his tale.

The Watcher shrugged his uncertainty. "Looks like it. That's why. . .well, I've got no real reason to think so, no reason except that Mac was in France, last I heard from him. So Methos and Kronos and these other Immortals, Silas and Caspian, were probably there too. So I'm thinking: what if they've got something to do with the plague? You know France was the first western European country it appeared in, and that just don't make no sense coming out of Russia. It should have passed through eastern Europe first—but it didn't. Now I know the press cooked up some damned story about a busload of French tourists bringing it home, but that just doesn't sit right with me."

"But how could these guys have anything to do with this disease?"

"We live in the age of technology," Joe said ironically, finding it grimly amusing that he was explaining this to someone even more closely connected with that age than he was. "With the right know-how, the right supplies...anything's possible."

"Yeah, but..." Richie stumbled, at a loss for words. "You don't think they'd really do that, do you? I mean, Methos is arrogant, but killing millions of people? It's just not his style, Joe. And even guys who'd do that sort of thing, well, I mean, they wouldn't be able to. . . ," the young Immortal trailed off helplessly.

"Richie, you've seen guys who'll kill you for the change in your pocket, and guys who'll kill for no reason other than they like to. How hard is it to believe that someone would do it on a bigger scale? As for Methos...I don't want to paint him red before the jury's in, but things are looking pretty bad."

"Wait. . .wait. You said _the last time you'd heard from Mac?_ How long's it been since then?"

Joe hesitated. "About a month."

"And you haven't done anything?" the other man blurted out.

"Hey, I had every Watcher in France on the lookout for him before the plague came out, and now those Watchers are _dead!_ So don't blame me," Joe snarled.

Richie hesitated only a moment before he stood up, looking pained but decisive. "Then I'm going to France."

"You can't! Hey. Rich, the plague may not be able to kill you, but we don't know if you'll get sick. You go there-- you might not be in any shape to look for anyone."

"What sorta shape you you think Mac is in, huh?" the Immortal demanded.

"He may not even be-" Joe started grimly.

Richie cut him off. "No. No. He's alive. And I'm going to find him. See ya, Joe," the younger man snarled, pushing back his seat and all but running for the door.

"Richie!" Joe called, standing up awkwardly. "Don't go. You don't have a chance of getting through that country. It's under quarantine!"

The redhead ignored him, pounding up the short steps and out the door.

"Damn," Joe said, softly at first, and then deeply angry, tears stinging the corners of his eyes. "_Dammit!_"

He look about the bar, searching for the shade of happier days. He could almost hear the heated debates between MacLeod and Methos; could see Richie lounging on the bar, talking about the latest problem in his youthful love life; could see Amanda chattering brightly as she leaned over MacLeod's arm.

The bluesman sighed into the empty room.

"Find MacLeod, and come back home safe."

But somehow he didn't think it would be that easy.

* * *

The four men checked into a five star Seacouver hotel. They were a mixed lot: one large and blond, one black-haired and tattooed, one short, with a scar bisecting his right eye, and the last tall, slim and nondescript. As a whole they were quiet and polite and they paid in cash, but the desk clerk was still uneasy. The men rented four rooms in row on the thirteenth floor--the one labelled the fourteeth on the elevator. The clerk handed the guests their keys quickly and had to tell himself not call security to keep an eye on them. Hotels like the _Martinique _ran on discretion and privacy. The customer was always right.

"Why here?" Caspian asked once they were all seated in the den of Kronos' room.

"It's too dangerous to stay in Europe," Methos answered easily. "The plague is running wild."

"Who's fault is that?" Caspian grumbled.

"It was inevitable that it would run out of control sooner or later," Kronos reminded him with relish in his voice. "It's taken on a life of its own."

"They all do, sooner or later," Silas shrugged.

"But why _here_?" Caspian persisted. "What is there of interest in this little backwater?"

"Methos used to live here," Kronos announced, grinning at the brother in question."He had quite the cozy little set up, really. But he left it all for a greater cause."

"Oooh, visiting the "old hometown," then?" Caspian laughed. "What fun. Can I meet your friends, big brother? Pretty please?" he wheedled childishly.

"We're here, aren't we?" Methos snapped irritably.

"What are we going to do here?" Silas asked.

"We need a new base of operations," Kronos answered seriously. "Bordeaux is a quarantine zone: useless now. No freedom of movement at all. I think we should keep this area clean for the moment. We'll move the virus, release it in other places, and come back here after. "

"Maybe somewhere a bit more secure. Anyone could overhear us in this place," Caspian pointed out.

"I'm shopping for likely locations as we speak," Kronos reassured him.

"Or unlikely," Methos interrupted sourly. "I don't know about the rest of you, but dark, wet and drafty isn't my idea of fun, and we don't want to set any patterns."

"Don't you like my taste in architecture?" Kronos mocked him.

"It was a surprise, brother," Silas said to Kronos. "I've never lived in such a place as that one before."

"Of course not. You lived in the dirt with the beasts," Caspian drawled.

"Better than living with the roaches in a madhouse," Silas snarled back.

The two younger Horsemen leaned threateningly at each other, muscles tensed to attack.

"Stop it, both of you," Methos sighed.

"Why should I stop from speaking the truth?" Caspian laughed in his thick Romanian accent.

"Because you're setting bait. Keep going and you'll catch more than you bargained for."

Caspian hesitated, wondering how seriously he should take the threat. He hadn't seen Methos for a long time, and there had seemed to be some changes in the man when they'd first come together again. He had seemed. . . conflicted. But with every day that passed, Caspian could see the Methos he'd known returning.

Slowly, he leaned back, eyes fixed on Methos' face.

"Perhaps I said enough for Silas to understand," Caspian finished condescendingly. Beside him, Silas stiffened further, but Caspian barely noticed as he watched Methos' eyes flash in an ancient and deadly manner.

Oh yes, he knew that expression. The black haired Horseman looked away from Methos quickly.

"We'll be out of the hotel as soon as I've found a suitable location," Kronos repeated, drawing the attention back to himself.

"Right," Methos said casually, standing up and stretching. "I'm for the dining room. I haven't eaten in a good eight hours."

"I'll be down in a few minutes," Kronos said. Methos merely nodded as though it were expected and turned around, walking across the plush white carpet and out the door.

Caspian and Silas stood as well. They still knew the signals. When Methos and Kronos withdrew, business was over. Caspian walked across the room with Silas at his left side; both men silent. The quarrel was forgotten, as so many others had been forgotten. Silas shut Kronos' door softly, the click of the latch sounding, leaving them in the opulent, dimly lit hallway.

"I'm hungry, too. You maybe are as well," Caspian remarked.

"I am," Silas agreed enthusiastically.

Methos and Kronos would likely wish to talk alone over supper, Caspian supposed. There had been that sort of hint in their last exchange. Kronos had said "he'd" be down in a minute, not "we'll."

"Let's see what the backwater has to offer, then," Caspian said, slightly annoyed. He did not enjoy being discounted, but knew better than to impose.

"It's a good idea," Silas nodded.

They reached the elevator and hit the button for the ground floor.

* * *

The Watcher entered _Joe's _with the "fade into the background" approach often perfected by spies and informants. He was a young man of twenty four, with the dark curly hair and complexion that spoke of a Mediterranean ancestry, and he had a business-like air about him which could not quite conceal his curiosity. He was looking forward to meeting this famous Watcher: the man who'd broken his Oath for his Immortal and had still been welcomed back within the Organization's ranks. But rumour had it now that Duncan MacLeod was dead, and everyone was wondering if the rumour was fact.

Dawson stood behind his bar, serving a man who looked as though he was steadily reaching approaching one too many.

"Joe Dawson?" the young Watcher inquired politely.

"Yeah?" the barkeep glanced in his direction.

"I'm Rob Alighieri. I have a message for you," he said, quickly flashing his tattoo.

"Yeah, okay," Dawson answered. "Come on in back." He gestured to his assistant. "Take care of the bar for a moment, would you, Mike?"

"Sure," Mike nodded.

Alighieri followed the other Watcher into the room behind the bar, taking a seat when the older Watcher waved his hand at a beaten-up old chesterfield.

"Okay, what is it?" Dawson asked as he sat on the chair opposite Rob, letting out a sigh of relief as the weight was taken off of his lower body.

"You sent out an alert to keep on the look out for a researcher named Adam Pierson?"

"Yeah, that's right," Dawson said, looking slightly suspicious.

The younger Watcher wondered why this researcher was important. Dawson had tensed up the moment Pierson's name was mentioned.

"He's been spotted here in Seacouver. He was coming out a hotel this morning. The _Martinique. _I didn't know researchers could afford five-star accommodations," Rob chuckled. Maybe Pierson had a well-paying day job.

Joe mumbled something that sounded like 'he's coming out of his shell,' but Alighieri wasn't sure.

"Was there anyone else with him?" Dawson asked, sounding as though he were barely reigning in his legendary temper.

"Not that I know of," Rob shook his head. "What's this all about?"

"Nothing," Joe snapped, and seemed instantly repentant. "Look, I'm sorry; I'm just a bit on edge, you know?"

"That's okay," Rob reassured him calmly. Then he hesitated, getting up the nerve to ask his question. "Do you know where Duncan MacLeod is, Mr. Dawson? I've heard he's dead."

Joe went rigid, and Alighieri thought for a moment that he was about to be tossed out on his ass.

"Who told you he's dead?" Dawson asked glacially.

"Well, it's all around. . .you hear things. It's--"

"The latest hot gossip, right?" Joe barked. "Yeah, I know how it is. What I want to know is who started the rumour."

Rob swallowed nervously. "Well, they say that one of the Watchers caught in France saw his—MacLeod's--body when it surfaced in the river. They say he sent in his report before the plague caught up with him—wait, wait--" he suddenly stuttered. "You mean you didn't know?"

"No, I didn't _know!_" Joe snarled. "Seems every Watcher from here to kingdom come knew but me! This report didn't go into the system!"

"Well, no. It hasn't been placed yet. People are still wondering. It could be a false report."

"No," Joe snapped, "They're cuttin' me outta the loop again. Figurin' that I'd do something _rash _if I thought MacLeod was dead. . . ." The older Watcher trailed off, then laughed bitterly. "No wonder there wasn't any white knight runnin' to Cassandra's rescue."

Alighieri frowned, feeling lost and out of his depth.

"You said Adam was at the _Martinique, _huh?" Joe demanded suddenly.

"Yeah. . ."

"Yeah, well, I've got a few things to say to everyone's favourite Methos researcher," Dawson snapped, more to himself than to his younger colleague."Tell the others to keep the watch on Pierson," he ordered. "And keep track of anyone, and I mean _anyone_, that he talks to."

"Sir? What does a researcher have to do with anything?" Alighieri asked. He stood up while Joe struggled to his feet.

"Maybe more than you'll ever know, if you're lucky. And maybe more than you'll ever want to," the bearded man grunted enigmatically. "Remember to keep that eye out."

* * *

Joe checked his gun one last time before shoving it into his coat pocket. Maybe the rumour was wrong; maybe MacLeod was still out there somewhere. Maybe Methos was innocent. . .well, relatively. But one of the things that Joe had learned in the last twenty five years was that Watcher rumours were almost always based on fact. He'd also learned to follow his instincts, and his instincts said that, as unthinkable as it seemed, Methos was guilty of murdering Duncan MacLeod. Most Watchers would say it was the Game, that murder never factored when one Immortal killed another, but Joe knew better. Whatever Methos had done had nothing to do with the Game. And if there'd even been a battle, Joe doubted it had been a fair one.

He smiled bitterly as he remembered his phone conversation with Methos.

_"I'm planning on keeping my head. Hopefully without it being handed to me on a silver platter," the other's voice was intensely caustic now, defensive and angry. _

_"Yeah, well, just make sure you don't let Kronos take MacLeod's while you're at it, huh?" Joe snapped back. _

_"Oh, don't worry, Joe. There's no chance of that," Methos chuckled._

He'd wondered what Methos had meant then, when there really should have been no question. Methos had said it so many times, but Joe, wrapped up in the defenceless, wide-eyed glamour of Adam Pierson, hadn't really believed it: first and foremost Methos looked out for himself. Selfishness was the art he had perfected, and had for his diligence received more than five thousand years of life. Undoubtedly he'd betrayed dear and good friends before. Perhaps even repaying their kindness with murder....

But damnit! Methos had saved MacLeod's life more than once; had saved him from a Dark Quickening. He'd invested so much time and care in the Highlander that Joe just hadn't thought. . . .

But what were a couple of years in the life of a man Methos' age? Even if he'd sincerely cared for MacLeod, even though he'd risked his life for him, that didn't mean that he couldn't change his mind.

"You deserved a better end, Mac," Joe whispered. "Damn, you deserved a better friend."

And he hated to think of Richie in Europe, walking next to the dying and the dead, searching for his teacher and never finding him. Perhaps MacLeod's body was a morgue somewhere. . .but most likely it had already been cremated as the death toll went up and the unclaimed, even the murder victims whose deaths in better times would have been investigated, were swiftly disposed of.

Joe hated to think of MacLeod's cold and lonely end culminating in such disgrace, but couldn't but help picture it anyway.

He almost could taste the ashes, floating on the wind.

* * *

"Perhaps this one," Kronos suggested, pointing to the article in the glossy book he had spread out on his lap.

Methos leaned over from the cushioned seat he'd sunk into near the balcony, and glanced at the picture of the house, seeing the upscale front.

"You're learning," he smiled at his brother. "Definitely better than your other choices."

Kronos glanced over at the other book that had been disdainfully tossed into the far corner of the suite.

"Now we need to look at it. Where is the house located?" Methos asked.

"Near the harbour."

Methos nodded absently, looking over the figures listed in the article. "Maybe," he conceded. "It's a good choice."

"And the sooner we get out of this hotel, the better," Kronos noted. "Caspian was right. It's not secure."

"And here I thought you'd welcome the chance to slaughter eavesdroppers," Methos said dryly as he picked up the bottle of beer sitting on the floor.

"Certainly," the other man grinned. "As long as we catch them. We don't need that kind of trouble."

"Isn't that the truth," Methos muttered, taking a swallow. Then he picked up a large black marker to circle the article Kronos had pointed out. "We can phone the real estate agent and see about checking out the property tomorrow," he said as he recapped the marker, tossing it aside absently. "In the meantime, I'm going to bed."

At the door, he glanced back, hesistating. "Kronos. We're being watched. Look for anyone with a blue tattoo on their wrist. Like this," he rolled up his sleeve and showed Kronos his tattoo.

"The Watchers," Kronos nodded. "I'm aware of them." Seeing Methos slightly surprised expression, he laughed. "And I saw the tattoo on you when I brought you to the power station that first night. Drag a man around by his arms and his sleeves do tend to ride up."

"Of course," Methos bit off.

"What exactly do you. . .do. . .for them, I wonder?" Kronos drawled.

"I research the Methos Chronicles."

Kronos laughed without meaning to. "Oh that was very clever, my brother. Very. . .characteristic. But now it's coming back to haunt you. They know your face, can track you all the more closely for the very fact that you were one of them."

"That's about the size of it," Methos said flippantly.

"It's a good thing that they have a non-interference policy, don't you agree?" Kronos continued, watching his brother closely.

Methos paused with his hand on the doorknob.

"Still, if they suddenly decide to abandon their sacred oaths, well then, we'll just have to kill them," Kronos said very deliberately.

"Anyone ever tell you that you have a one-track mind?"

"No one living," Kronos said with a cruel grin.

Methos sneered and left, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

"Pierson at eleven o'clock," Kevin Moore reported mockingly into his cell phone.

"_Right. Anyone with him?_"

"Three guys," the Watcher said to his colleague. "I don't recognise them. Rob said that Dawson was acting as though Pierson was involved in something bad, though, so these guys might well be found in the nearest top ten wanted list."

_"And they say that researchers are meek and tame_," came the annoyed reply. _"You know, we're supposed to be watching Immortals, not our own people."_

"Tell me about it. Listen, I've gotta call Dawson. Pierson and his friends are headed down around Fifth and King. A black mini-van, newer model-- looks like a '95 Chrysler, side by side with a red one of the same model."

_"I'm guessing these guys aren't big fans of the environment, huh? I'll keep an eye on them."_

"For the Watchers or for the environment?" Moore joked. Then he became serious again. "Great. Get Rob with you too. He's on watch once you get wherever they're headed. Later."

Moore switched the line off without waiting for a reply and, sighing, dialed Joe Dawson's number.

"_Joe's,_"a gruff voice answered.

"Joe Dawson. This is Kevin Moore; I was Watching Adam Pierson. He's gone out somewhere with three men. Harold White is Watching them now. Roberto Alighieri is taking over once they reach their destination."

_"Great. I want you to let Alighieri know to check in with me every five minutes once he takes over."_

"Every five minutes, sir?" Moore asked, wondering why the man would want such closely spaced reports.

_"Just do it."_

"Yes, sir."

Dawson's line went dead and Moore clicked his cell phone off, and then back on to dial Alighieri's number.

* * *

The house was large and sunlit, its rooms open and airy, and a slightly nervous real estate agent was extolling its virtues as she led the Four Horsemen through a walking tour.

"And here is the route to the second floor, with a classic, broad staircase. As you can see--"

"We'll take it," Methos interrupted abruptly.

"Excuse me?" the woman asked, raising an eyebrow.

"We'll take it," Kronos agreed casually.

"Okay," the woman said, smiling and getting into the swing of things. She seemed ready to dismiss her reservations about her somewhat disreputable customers. "Perhaps you'd like to discuss payment now?"

"Perhaps we should look at the paperwork first, before we start signing cheques?" Methos inquired mildly.

"Of course, sir," the woman amended with a quick smile.

Methos smiled sarcastically at her, then glanced over to the other side of the room. There was a large window there, and through the glare of the sunlight, Methos saw Joe Dawson standing in front of the house, leaning on his cane and waiting.

"I have something to do," Methos said to the other three men without warning. "Don't wait up."

The others followed his gaze out of the window, pinpointing the mortal man standing outside.

"Someone you know?" Caspian asked curiously.

"Yes," Methos replied coldly. He walked out of the room, leaving his brothers to deal with the real estate agent and her paperwork.

It was warm outside as the Immortal stepped off of the low, long porch, but not too warm. A gentle breeze blew across Methos' brow as he walked down the long pathway to the sidewalk where Joe had yet to move. The bluesman's stare remained fixed on his some-time colleague.

"Hello, Joe," Methos said softly.

* * *

"Methos," Joe said. In his own ears his voice sounded as it were being dragged over gravel.

He had not meant to wait for Methos to speak. Joe had dismissed the Watcher keeping an eye on the Horsemen as soon as he'd arrived on the scene. He'd paused a moment before the house, wondering whether he should go in or wait for Methos to come out. The decision had been taken away from him when Methos had appeared sooner than he expected. If he had to be honest, Joe would admit that he was relieved. Meeting all four Horsemen at once didn't sound like a smart idea.

His plan had been to shoot the oldest Immortal and take his head. It violated any number of rules, as well as being the murder and betrayal of a friend, but Joe had been overwhelmed with rage and grief for MacLeod. But seeing Methos walk down the pathway gave Joe pause. Despite rationally knowing Methos' true age, he'd always felt rather protective of 'Adam Pierson,' and the Immortal had looked so very young and innocent, smiling without a care....

He had no _proof _that Methos was responsible for MacLeod's death. Hell, he didn't even have proof that MacLeod was dead. All he had were some rumours from gossipy young Watchers. Sure, the gossip network was usually pretty reliable, but not always. They'd been wrong before, and God, what if he killed Methos for no reason?

"I didn't expect to see you here," Methos said with a smile.

"You expect to run ar ound Seacouver and not be noticed by the Watchers?" Joe asked sarcastically. "A Watcher consorting with Immortals?"

"They don't know about the others," Methos said logically, "Or I would've been pulled in for questioning days ago. No. . .I just wasn't expecting to see you, Joe."

"Guilty conscience? Is that why you were avoiding me? Or is it true what MacLeod said? That you're the only man in the Western World without one?" Joe said curtly, feeling his anger and thwarted grief bubbling just under the surface.

"What do I have to feel guilty about, exactly?" the other man asked sarcastically.

"How about the fact that you're prancing around the city with your Horseman buddies, while Duncan MacLeod is dead?" Joe gestured angrily with his free hand. The carefree attitude that had made him hesitate to shoot the man was now starting to really get under his skin.

Methos' eyes darkened briefly, a flash of some indescribable emotion rushing across their surface. Joe blinked, wondering if he'd imagined the intensity of the expression, or if it had simply been the bright sunlight playing tricks on him.

"So you know," the Immortal said slowly.

"You did kill him," Joe said, equally slowly, through his shock. He hadn't been sure, after all. . . . There had still been a chance that MacLeod was alive.

"_Kill _him?" Methos demanded incredulously. "Why would I kill him? Look, MacLeod and I weren't exactly on speaking terms when it happened, but I had no reason in hell to take his head. I've saved it more than once: did you think I was going to throw away my investment like that?" he joked harshly. "He was my friend, Joe. If I could have saved him, I would have. But I couldn't."

"So what happened?"

"There was another Immortal in Bordeaux. I heard about it after. MacLeod was every headhunter's dream—you know that. The guy that did it--Johannes Brueder--couldn't resist spreading the word. He wanted everyone to know about his _achievement._"

"How come I never heard about this before, huh, Methos? Were you going to leave me hanging, wondering for the rest of my life what happened to MacLeod?" Joe spat, wavering between the need to believe, and the suspicion that wanted to blame Methos.

"I thought you'd have heard about from Brueder's Watcher or, failing that, through the network. Not that you'd come to me with wild accusations that I'd killed one of my closest friends."

Joe locked eyes with Methos. Was it possible that he was telling the truth? Methos had lied before-- had lied to the Watchers for ten years, and no one had ever suspected him, but maybe that was because no one had ever had any reason to suspect him. Right now Joe had very good reasons to suspect Methos, but the genuine anger in the man's expression, disgusted that Joe could even think that he would have killed their friend...

"If you didn't do it, what are you doing with those three, huh?" Joe jerked his chin over towards the house.

"I thought I'd already told you that," Methos sounded annoyed.

"Surviving. You said it in France. And then the plague broke out."

"What are you suggesting, Joe?" Methos asked coldly.

Joe wondered whether he should really bring the issue up. If Methos was innocent, he may just alienate his friend completely by making the accusation. But Joe Dawson had rarely backed away from anything in his life, and he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he started now.

"I mean maybe the Horsemen decided to fulfill their legend. It'd be pretty easy, after all. Soup something up in a shady lab somewhere, set it loose and watch it grow."

"You think that I had something to do with France? You think that I'm involved with the deaths of millions of people?"

"I'm thinking it's a damn funny coincidence."

"I came here because I still thought of myself as your friend, Joe. I may be with Kronos and Silas and Caspian, but do you know why that is? Not just for survival though, oh yes, that does play a part. It's because they're my _friends_; they're my brothers. But I've come to think of this city as home, because you're here, and MacLeod was here. My _friends._ MacLeod may be gone, Joe, but I still thought that I could keep your friendship, and keep my other friends too. Maybe that was too much to ask, though? Because now I get accused of infecting Europe with a deadly virus. A virus that clearly came out of Asia? You think a lot of me, don't you?" Methos asked, his tirade winding down into a bitter little chuckle.

"I've never tried to deny a man his friends, Methos," Joe said hoarsely. "Unless those friends were killers. And that's what your friends are."

"Yeah?" Methos asked mockingly. "Well, guess what, Joe? So are _yours. _You think that because it's the Game that it doesn't matter? Someone is still dead; someone still grieves. And you think that MacLeod never killed a mortal? Or Amanda never did? You think that Richie never left a grieving widow when he chopped off someone's _head? _Or do you ignore it because they're the _good guys? _Is that it, Joe?" His voice was very light now, his eyes wide and curious and almost innocent. Joe wanted to punch him.

"Look, I've read your friends' files. They were enough to make me sick, and I hate to think about all of the stuff we didn't catch, the thousands of years left out of the records."

"_I've _read some pretty nasty things in MacLeod's files as well," Methos said with a little smile. "What about what he did after Culloden? How he terrorised women and children, and killed so many soldiers just because they were English, even though the war was over? He had no way of knowing which ones had killed, which ones were guilty. What about all of those other people he's judged, delivering sentence with his sword? Do you think all of them were guilty? What about the ones who just wanted to live their life another way, a way that MacLeod didn't approve of. He killed them, too, Joe. At least my friends never tried to play judge and jury."

"Did you come back to Seacouver here to mock me?" Joe shouted. "To flaunt your _friends_?"

"No," Methos mused slowly. "I came here... to have my cake and eat it too."

The door to the house opened abruptly and both Joe and Methos looked over as the three other Horsemen and the real estate woman stepped out.

"I don't know whether to believe you or not, Adam," Joe said heavily. "Just don't show up at my bar any time soon."

* * *

"Trouble?" Kronos asked impassively as the Immortals drove back back to the hotel.

Methos briefly looked over from the wheel. "With what?"

"The mortal," Kronos said. "Is he going to be a problem?"

"No. . .I don't think so," Methos said thoughtfully, and then smiled. "Of course, I'm not entirely sure about that, either. That's what makes it so interesting."

"Playing a game?" Kronos asked as they paused at the lights. He sounded slightly annoyed.

"I thought you liked my games," Methos pouted.

"They're risky...but then, you never played a game that you couldn't be sure of winning in the end."

Methos accelerated, passing the lights when the bottom one turned green. In the other van with Silas, Caspian did the same.

"I'm not sure about the outcome of this particular game, Kronos," Methos said thoughtfully, his eyes firmly fixed upon the busy street. "But whatever it is, it's going to be fun."

End Part 4

* * *

Sorry about the delay between updates. I got caught up in writing my Star Wars fic:)

I hope that you all enjoyed this part.

Anon review responses:

**sapphire:** Thanks again for the reviews:) I'm so happy you're enjoying the plot. Plots are _hard_, so it's nice to get some recognition for them when they turn out well.


	5. Caspian

**Part 5: Caspian**

**_And when he had opened the third seal, I heard the third beast say, Come and see. And I beheld, and lo a black horse; and he that sat upon him had a pair of balances in his hand._** --Revelation 6:5, King James Bible

**_They that die by famine die by inches_.** --Mathew Henry

**_I believe that if ever I had to practice cannibalism, I might manage if there were enough tarragon around._** --James Beard

_It's about time,_ Caspian thought, piercing the screaming mortal with his keen blade.

It had been three months since the Horseman had settled into headquarters at Seacouver, but very rarely did they actually reside there, busy as they were with the virus. Kronos took every opportunity to dump the deadly concoction into local water supplies, and the plague had now spread unstoppably over vast portions of the Earth. Still Methos had preached caution when the other three Horseman spoke of actually getting out there and killing something face to face. He said that they did not want to attract suspicion from powerful quarters until the plague had progressed too far for it to make a difference. Personally Caspian had thought Methos was being overly cautious, given that panicked outbreaks of mortal violence were now a regular occurrence. One more bloodbath among hundreds wasn't going to attract too much attention.

What had at first seemed to the mortals but a passing phenomenon was now in deadly earnest. The modern world was falling apart at a startling rate. Religious convenes and strange rituals designed to save one's body from the devastation multiplied by the day. Neighbour killed neighbour, and the arrogant trappings of civilisation disintegrated more completely than even Caspian had thought possible.

But most importantly, just yesterday morning Methos had announced that now was the time when it was safe for the Horsemen to begin to come out of hiding. Elated, Kronos had wasted no time flying them out to a mid-sized Hungarian town, where the Horsemen had planned their assault and then attacked with weapons both ancient and modern.

To Caspian, it was like finally coming home. There was something more than ecstasy in the sensations a man's body evoked as it slid slowly off a bared blade: the dull, dusty thud as it hit the ground; the scent of the plague drifting off of the skin; the slow leak of dark blood, almost black as it oozed from a fatal belly wound.

His victim dying in the dust, Caspian laughed and moved on to a woman who was slashing empty air with a knife, apparently trying to deter anyone who might think to attack her. Caspian wrapped an arm around her from the back, chuckling into her ear and drinking in the sounds of her terrified screams.

"Such a little knife to help you," he crooned. "On your way. . . ."

He wrapped a large bronze hand about the woman's still thrashing grip, overpowering her irresistibly, slowly and painfully turning her own knife on her.

"_Nem!_" she shrieked, seeing the knife approaching her ceaselessly. "_Nem!_" Her voice was more than a moan of protest as the knife finally touched her flesh: entering first with a pinprick, and then sliding in anything but smoothly. Caspian felt the gelatin resistance of the top layers of skin and fat, followed by the harsh, jarring scrape of steel on bone. The Horseman gritted his teeth against the familiar, addictive melange of pleasure and visceral disgust.

The woman screamed and sobbed as she slowly died, and Caspian cooed faux comfort in her ear. Only when the last whimper flickered away he did drop his victim to the ground. Her chest still leaked blood, but it would stop soon enough.

The blood was still running high in Caspian's veins. Adrenaline pumped through his body until he was literally shaking with excitement. This was life. Spilling blood--- not in some hidey-hole, hoping that the mortals won't find you, even if you refused to admit to yourself that you feared their retribution—but out in the open, daring all the world to notice. Daring them and knowing that even if they try to take you down, you'd still win.

* * *

Kronos felt that there something cold and precise about the manner in which Methos spun and whirled: talented and graceful as an ice dancer; focused as a surgeon. One by one the mortals fell about the oldest Immortal, each struck dead by a single blow. There was nothing messy or even particularly sadistic about it.

_It's. . .professional, _Kronos concluded, absently striking down a victim of his own.

Methos had always been very professional about these things, his enthusiasm and pleasure showing only in his effervescent hazel eyes.

The savage smile on Kronos' face broadened as he watched over the growing piles of corpses all around him. This small modern town contained more people in it than any single village that the Horseman had personally slaughtered during their thousand-year reign of terror, but somehow the Immortals were not tiring.

It was the enthusiasm of their return; a precise purpose that Kronos had never before known. This time the Horseman were making their mark on billions of people; this time they were changing the nature of whole civilisations. Keenly ironic, Kronos felt that he'd fallen in love with the opportunities the age of technology offered. In the old days, no matter how remarkably ruthless the Four Horsemen were, they were still only one group of raiders in a world that sported hundreds. But now they were a legend come to life, a nightmare in the flesh.

Truly there had never been a band such as they; never in all history.

* * *

Slowly the sun climbed down across the sky, spreading its crimson light, illuminating a town painted in new crimson. When the last man fell; the last home defiled by screams, the Horsemen, _sans_ horses, calmly walked back to their empty motel and stripped out of their blood soaked battle garb.

They met in the hallway after. Kronos immediately noticed that there was something different about Methos, but couldn't figure it right away. A few puzzled glances later, and the light went on in his brain.

"Interesting choice of clothing."

Methos smiled modestly. "It was time."

The ancient was dressed in an ordinary enough manner: new clean jeans and a long cable-knit sweater. The only difference from before was that everything under his long brown duster, from socks to collar and all things in between, was a blinding shade of white.

"I have a part to live up to, after all," he shrugged.

* * *

Back in Seacover a week later Kronos could not find Methos in his room. After checking the rest of the house, Kronos left for the city centre. It didn't take long to find Methos there.

The oldest Immortal was sitting alone in Seacouver's extensive library. There was a pile of foreign newspapers resting on the table, one of them spread out before his rapt eyes.

"Usually this sort of thing would make the front pages, of course," Methos said, eyes still on the page, acting as though they were already deep in conversation.

Kronos bent over the Hungarian newspaper with its report on a slaughtered town.

"These must not be usual times, then," he replied, taking a seat across from the other man.

"Really?" Methos asked lightly, mockingly, but his heart wasn't in the banter. He seemed distracted.

Kronos picked up another newspaper and flipped through it, noting the reports about the spreading of the plague and the usual associated stories.

"I wonder how much will be lost," Methos whispered unexpectedly, his eyes acquiring a far away looked as he stared towards the large windows.

"How much what?" Kronos asked, frowning blankly.

"Knowledge," Methos said, indicating the books all around them with a sigh. "Knowledge of everything. Of course, they get more than half of everything wrong, but even the process of discovery is vital. Right or wrong it's going to disappear. Whoever survives, if anyone survives. . .their children, a thousand years from now; they're going to know next to nothing about the world that was, about the histories and the discoveries...the wonders."

Kronos shrugged, toying with one of Methos' pens. "They never appreciate it when they have it anyway. People take knowledge for granted."

"But at least it's there to _be _taken for granted."

Silence fell, and they went back to reading. Several minutes later a middle-aged mortal man with a balding grey head, a blue denim shirt, and beige slacks approached their table.

"Excuse me?" he asked.

Methos looked up; Kronos ignored the man. "Yes?"

"Are you finished with this paper?" He indicated one of the American reports.

"Sure," Methos nodded. "Did you want to use it?"

"Ah, yes," the man said, smiling sadly as he picked it up. "You know, everyone used to say that the only things the papers ever reported was bad news. Good news doesn't sell. Now it seems that the only thing there is to report is bad news. Good news doesn't exist. Huh." He shook his head resignedly and gestured with the paper in his hand. "Thanks for this."

"No problem," Methos said nonchalantly. "We should all be well informed."

The mortal walked away from the table as Methos placed his chin in his hands, looking thoughtful. Kronos watched his brother over the edge of his own paper, eyes narrowed.

* * *

"I thought I told you not to come here!" Joe snarled at his latest customer.

"I noticed you took the Watchers off my tail," Methos said casually as he took a seat at an empty section of the bar.

"You're a hard man to keep up with," Joe glowered, slamming a beer down in front of another man. A little of the golden liquid sloshed out and Joe immediately started scrubbing at the wooden bar.

"I like to travel," Methos answered.

"Taking connecting flights, changing destinations in the middle of a trip, and diverting the watch," Joe snapped.

"Well, it's not my job to make it easy for them," Methos shrugged. "But why did you do it? A difficult target isn't usually enough to shake the Watchers off."

Joe sighed angrily. "They were getting suspicious, wondering why a Watcher was being followed. One of them finally threatened to report me to the regional director."

"They don't know who I am?" Methos asked, tracing patterns in the grain of the bar's wood.

"They delivered all reports directly to me. None of them had any reason to think that you were anything but a researcher who'd stepped over the line."

"And the one that threatened to report you?" Methos asked impassively.

"He thought that Watchers should be doing better things than watching other Watchers, and that if you'd done something you should be taken in directly to the Tribunal."

"I'm surprised he didn't go to the Tribunal himself," Methos murmured.

"No," Joe said grudgingly. "He just used it to get them off the job. They were all getting pretty fed up. Could never keep up long enough to see anything worth the effort."

"Well," Methos said, looking up with a little grin, "I noticed those mysteriously appearing bugs. I don't imagine they had the chance to _hear_ anything interesting either."

"Look," Joe snapped, "What do you want, Methos? I may not have found anything, but that doesn't mean I trust you worth a damn, so why are you here?"

"Joe," Methos breathed, exasperated. "Have you ever really trusted me, since the day Duncan MacLeod told you who I am? I've done nothing, but you're apparently not ready to believe that. In the mean time, can't we play nice? Or is me being in your sandbox just too much for you?"

Joe filled another tankard as a customer called over and took a moment to deliver the beer. When he returned, he lowered his voice to answer. "It's your friends that bother me more than you being in my _sandbox."_

"Before you took them off, did your people report any of my friends doing anything more suspicious than glaring at school kids?" Methos asked slowly.

"No," Joe said said reluctantly. "But like you said, you guys didn't make it easy. Eighty percent of the time they couldn't even find you. Hell, any of you could have been doing anything!"

"Yeah, and you could be cutting up small children in the cellar and serving them in the chicken fingers," Methos said sarcastically. "Doesn't mean it's happening."

Joe reddened. "I'm not a confirmed psychopath who's been in the nuthouse for the past decade, either!"

Methos shrugged. "Caspian always was the weird one. I suppose he'd say it's part of his charm―right before he eats a cockroach or something equally revolting."

Joe scowled. Another customer called to him and he left Methos for a moment. When he came back he looked a bit less angry, but no less annoyed.

"So how are you, Joe?" Methos asked as though the previous conversation had not taken place.

"Why are you still here?" the Watcher grumbled.

"I'm your friend. I want to see if you're all right."

"I'm real hunky dory," Joe snapped. "Now will you leave?"

Methos sighed and stood up, pulling his coat tightly around him as though he were suddenly chilly.

"Well I was going to ask for a beer, but I suppose I can go count street lights instead."

He started walking away, then paused. "If you want to talk, Joe, ring me sometime. I'm sure your agents were at least able to get a phone number before they suffered the agony of defeat."

"Smartass," Joe muttered.

* * *

By the next week the news was reporting troops from all over the world slaughtering the plague victims of their own countries. The United Nations, an organization which had been created to uphold human rights, had now come to the decision that purging the infected areas of their populations was the only chance of stopping the virus from spreading even further. The public outcry was a tremendous wave of fear and outrage, while the cynical and resigned only shook their heads.

"Little enough do they know," Kronos commented as he looked over Seacouver from the large, airy window. There was a classical balcony extending from it, and Kronos stepped out onto it just as Silas appeared at the glass doors.

"You're going to put it somewhere else?" the blond asked eagerly.

"I don't have to," Kronos leaned over the balcony, squinting in the bright sunlight. "The virus doesn't die with the body. It will continue to spread. The only reason that we aren't infected ourselves is that the Immortal immune systems works millions of times more quickly to eliminate the disease. Mortals have nothing like that, and it will linger indefinitely even in their corpses."

Silas frowned. "So why are they going to kill the people if it isn't going to work?"

Kronos laughed slightly. "Because they're desperate. They'll try just about anything now. They'll kill anything to make it go away. They hide from the horror as a child hides under his bed from the shadows on the wall. And each method is as ineffective--there are shadows under the bed as well as on the wall."

"Foolish men," Silas scowled, but there was a knowing gleam in his large grey eyes. Though not as clever as Kronos, Silas had been around for a long time, and he'd had chance enough to observe irrational human behaviour . It simply struck him as ridiculous that he'd looked to Kronos for confirmation of what he'd already guessed himself. Now he was almost disappointed.

"Nothing changes," Kronos snorted. "Nothing _ever _changes."

* * *

"I knew I'd find you here," Kronos announced, stepping into Methos's private library.

"These are all the ones I already have in North America," Methos said. "I'm also going to search for the necessary volumes that aren't already in my collection. I have others in Europe, of course. I'll pick them up soon. They all need to be saved."

Kronos leaned against the enormous bookcase next to his brother. "Not having second thoughts are you?" the scarred Immortal asked acidly.

Methos loosed a little bark of laughter. "It's a bit late for that. No--but I'm saving the books. Even if I'm the only one who ever reads them again, at least I'll know that they're there. Who knows, maybe I'll built up a legendary lost library. It's good to be a myth," he said with a secretive little smirk.

The bright light from the sunny day was shining down through the glass hole cut into the ceiling. Kronos tipped his head back and squinted. He imagined fire raining down the skies, incinerating the world, and only Methos' books surviving in the aftermath. It was a ridiculous fancy, but it made Kronos smile briefly. Methos would like it, he thought.

"There's a bit less spontaneity involved in the end of the world than there should be," he said suddenly.

Methos chuckled. "Always so impatient to have your fun."

Kronos grinned. "You know it."

* * *

Th customs agent scowled in frustration as he inspected the man's papers. Fine rows of black print informed him that the man had not been in any plague infected area since the epidemic began, but you couldn't trust papers. There were people who'd pay millions of dollars for false papers, only to bring the disease in their bodies to clean areas. The waves of attempted emigrations to other lands were almost as much a plague as the disease itself.

"I'm sorry sir, but you'll have to step into isolation. You'll need to be quarantined and examined before I can allow you to proceed further."

"But I haven't been in the infected areas!" the man exclaimed in desperation.

"Of course, sir. But we do need to take precautions," the customs agent replied emotionlessly from behind the sealed glass screen. It was no use arguing with them, after all. They'd only ever deny it.

"But--!"

"Take him to quarantine," he said, gesturing to the guards. The two men dressed in Hazmat suits grasped the traveller by the arms and directed him away, even as the man continued to to protest his innocence, nearly in tears with urgency.

The customs agent leaned back in his seat and passed a hand over his face, letting out a deep breath. He had no doubt the man would be found infected, and would soon be dead-- if not from the disease, then from a poison slipped in a drink; the merciful solution of the day. Anyone infected these days was under a death sentence, no matter how you looked at it.

Shaking his head, the customs man met the troubled eyes of the next supplicant.

* * *

Joe Dawson cursed as he crumbled the message in his hand. One of his agents had tried to make it back through the border after travelling out of country and had been held up at customs, found infected and promptly killed. Joe didn't know whether to believe if the man had really been infected or not. These days they might just kill you on paranoia alone. It was all so senseless.

Taking a sip of brandy from the glass sitting next to him, he turned to the next issue on his plate: Methos. To believe or not to believe? The ancient Immortal hadn't returned to the bar again, and there were still no Watchers on the Horsemen. Joe didn't know what to think, but maybe he should talk to Methos. Perhaps the Immortal knew something about what was going on. He'd been in France when the plague appeared, after all. But that was what made it so difficult to believe him...

But how likely was it really that four men had unleashed this disease? It made no sense. What could they possibly get out of it? Joe's own words to Richie came back to haunt him. Sure there were guys who would kill for the thrill alone, but on this scale? And as far as he could tell Methos had been in Seacouver for weeks....

"What the hell?" Joe muttered. "I got nothing to lose."

He shuffled through his papers and found the number.

* * *

"Hello, Joe," Methos said as he sat down across from the mortal. The Immortal was smiling, his eyes crinkled up at the corners, tentative delight defining his expression. He folded his long, slim hands into a mock-prayer pose on the table before him and then promptly unfolded them to shrug out of his long brown coat, revealing his bright white sweater. He draped his coat over the back of his chair and then leaned forward to fix his eyes attentively on Joe.

"Methos," Joe said uncomfortably.

"Business going well?" Methos asked with studious politeness.

"It's okay," Joe said gruffly. "People like to drown their sorrows."

Methos nodded. "But they don't really understand what it is that they're facing. They won't understand until it gets here."

Joe knew it was true. His own experience told him that until people were right under the bullet, they just didn't know.

"Yeah, well. Look, Methos..." In his frustration Joe decided to throw caution to the winds. "Do you know what could be causing this plague?"

A dark expression settled on the young-looking face before him and Joe hastily corrected himself. "Now I'm not blaming you for anything. I'm just saying--share your ancient wisdom and all that--where _could_ it have come from?"

"And here I thought you didn't know about the wisdom," Methos said scathingly. But when Joe scowled unhappily, the Immortal sighed and leaned back further into his seat, stretching as he thought about it.

"I don't know, Joe. Everyone once in a while, a disease pops up out of the blue. Mother Nature's patented population control."

"Every disease has a cause," Joe said, holding onto his temper by a hair. "You must have some idea. A guess?"

"I try to not guess, Joe. It's a dangerous occupation."

"Damn it, Methos! This is serious!" Joe snarled, smashing his fist on the table and upsetting his drink.

"And so am I," Methos said slowly. "Maybe it really was the population. Too many people in one place. Who knows?"

"So you don't know," Joe sighed, closing his eyes briefly.

"I don't know," Methos nodded. "I've said it before Joe: I'm not a repository of ancient knowledge and wisdom. I'm just a guy."

"To the eternal regret of the rest of us," Joe mumbled. He felt intensely tired; worn out and disappointed. "Someone has to find out what's causing it," the Watcher sighed. "The cause can lead to the solution."

Methos examined his fingernails intently before glancing up again. "Sometimes. But not always. How are the Watchers taking this?"

The question was unexpected. "What, you're not hacking into the database every day?"

"Not every day," Methos said with a little smile. It made him look very impish, and Joe gave a weary laugh, unable to completely resist Methos' charm.

"It's affecting us like everyone. We've lost a lot of agents, almost the entire European Branch. Definitely the whole Parisian repository. A lot in Asia, some in Africa. Not as many in South America of course; it's not as bad there. . . . Any Immortals caught in infected areas are either Watcherless or being Watched by agents who are already dying. It's a mess."

"And lucky you're doing as well as you are," Methos finished for him.

Joe nodded and studied the man across the table from him, noting the now serious hazel eyes. He didn't want to think this man capable of anything more heinous than skipping out on his bar tab. Was it so bad to give him to benefit of the doubt? Still. . . .

"I've got a lot of work to do today, Methos," Joe said briskly.

Methos stood up, swinging his long coat around and over his arms with a single smooth motion.

"Contrary to popular belief," he said, "I do know how to take a hint."

Joe snorted with amusement. "Come on over tomorrow," he said before he could stop himself. "Maybe you can share some more of that wisdom."

Surprised pleasure spread over Methos' keen features. "I don't know about the wisdom. . .but I'll be there."

Joe watched him leave, smiling softly and feeling both relieved and troubled.

* * *

Caspian watched the sunset over the balcony, wondering at the road that had brought him to this time and place. It had been a long, long journey, and it was not yet finished, but it had surely been interesting.

Feeling a distant buzz, the Horseman transferred his gaze down to street and watched as Methos, slim and energetic, almost skipped up the path to the front door. Even across the distance the younger Immortal's sharp brown eyes could discern the expression on that pale, angular face.

Serene and triumphant, Methos lips were turned up in the smile of Death.

* * *

**Notes:**

"Nem" = 'No' in Hungarian. Woah, shocking.

**Reviews:**

**Sapphire: **Thanks again for the review! Yes, there was plenty of Methos and Joe in the last chapter, and plenty more in this one. Hope you're still enjoying Methos' game;)**  
**


	6. Amanda

**Part 6: Amanda**

_**And the woman was arrayed in purple and scarlet colour, and decked with gold and precious stones and pearls, having a golden cup in her hand full of abominations and filthiness of her fornication...and the merchants of the earth shall weep and mourn over her; for no man buyeth their merchandise anymore.**_ --Revelation 17:4&18:11, King James Bible

_**No one rejoices more in revenge than woman.**_--Satires, Decimus Junius Juvenal

Amanda was lying in languid sleepiness on her long, white chaise lounge when the doorbell rang. At first she ignored it and continued to indulge her melancholia, a result of the recent deaths of several mortal friends, but the doorbell persisted and was soon accompanied by impatient pounding. Sighing her tired annoyance and resignation, the Immortal stood up and smoothed her short black Prada dress before stalking through her expensively appointed flat. Halfway there she knew her visitor was Immortal, and she pulled her sword out from the sheath on the wall, holding it at ready when she yanked open the door.

"What is it?!"

A wretched looking Richie Ryan greeted her eyes. He appeared extremely dirty and totally exhausted.

"It's me," Richie muttered, collapsing against the door frame.

Amanda grabbed his arm; glanced outside briefly, and pulled the young man into the flat where she hustled him over to a large chair, sitting him down with no regard for the dirt. Richie made no protest at her rough handling. Having arrived, he now seemed to be in a state of shock.

"What's with the new look?" Amanda demanded. "Where have you been?"

Richie laughed bitterly and slowly shook his head. "France. Look, Amanda, six months ago I went to Joe's. He filled me in on a lot of stuff that happened. Thing is, Mac went to France-- Bordeaux that is, and didn't come back. Joe told me; said no one had heard from Mac in a while; no one had seen him, so I went to France. It was easy enough to get into the country then; things weren't as serious as now. God, there are almost no people left there now; you know that? France must have a grand total population of 50. Well, anyway, I went to look for Mac."

Richie paused, closing his eyes. Amanda had sat down on the sofa beside him, and was now gripping his hand.

"And then?"

"Yeah. . .I couldn't find him. At first I thought it was just, you know, he didn't want to be found, but I checked every hotel; I went everywhere I could think of. God, I called people; I did everything. It was a dead end. So I thought-- what if it had happened? He might be dead. What if those sons of bitches killed him?"

"What sons of bitches?" Amanda interrupted, her face wrinkled with confusion.

"The Horsemen," Richie said grimly, looking decades older than the last time Amanda had seen him.

"The who?" she asked darkly.

"They're those recent events Joe filled me in on," Richie said with a sad little chuckle. "Amanda, what do you know about Immortal myths? We've got our own set of old wives tales; we've got our own religion, practically. What have you learned?"

"Richie, I hardly think this is the time for a mythology lesson," Amanda said impatiently, standing up and beginning to pace.

Richie ignored her. "Did your teacher—Did Rebecca tell you about four Immortals who terrorised the world for a thousand years? Have you ever heard of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse?"

"Well, of course I have," Amanda snapped irritably. "Who hasn't?"

"I mean the Immortals the story is based on," Richie clarified with uncharacteristic patience.

Amanda opened her mouth to deliver a snappish reply, and then realised that there was something: a memory so distant and seemingly irrelevant that she hadn't thought of it in over a thousand years. But now she could hear Rebecca's voice in story-telling mode, the wise-woman with a message:

_The Four ruled the world by blood and terror. There was no man and no Immortal who would dare stand against them. So goes the tale. When their reign had ended, I was barely more than a mortal girl, but the allegorical figures whom the monks read of in their heavy tomes were living, breathing Immortal men, bonded together by oaths that no other understood. If any Immortal alive knows the true names of the Horsemen, knows the faces behind the masks of terror that shook the world, he does not dare speak of it. But beware, Amanda: there were no more potent killers than the Horsemen, and perhaps, somewhere, one or all still live...._

"The Horsemen," Amanda said. "Yes, Rebecca mentioned them to me once. I'd forgotten."

"You know, I think everyone did," Richie said. "Forgot it until they stopped telling their students and their students didn't tell their students. But damn, they should have. I don't know how much good it would have done, but if we'd all remembered maybe things would be different now."

"Why?" But somehow she already knew the answer.

"Because the Horsemen never died. They just waited. I didn't really believe it myself, and then I found France. I was looking for Mac, like I said, but someone else went missing at the same time he did—an old Immortal called Cassandra. Joe told me about her. Apparently she was the Horsemen's slave back in the day. Anyway, I was looking in the morgues, trying to find...Mac. I didn't want to think the worst, but I had to know. Didn't find him, but I did find this."

Digging in his pocket, he held out a morgue-style photo of a woman's face. Serenely white, her death mask transfixed Amanda's nervous eyes.

"Cassandra Bell, national of Scotland. Found beheaded in a waste disposal unit outside of Bordeaux," Amanda read. "What does this have to do with these Horsemen?"

"Amanda, _Mac_ was in Bordeaux, and Cassandra was with him! Mac's been gone for months, and so has Cassandra—if the Horsemen killed her, then...."

"You don't have proof of anything, Richie! This is all just—speculation."

"Sure, that's what I thought. I didn't have anyone to go to; no one I could ask or bounce theories off of. Mac was my centre of gravity, you know? Nothing ever seemed to shake him. I pretty much gave up, and then I met this other Immortal. I attacked him as soon as I sensed him. I thought maybe it was one of the Horsemen. But this guy beat me fair and square and didn't take my head. Told me that he had something important to tell me, that he knew I was looking for the Horsemen. I didn't want to trust him, but I mean what's the worst that could have happened? He could have killed me and didn't."

"What was this guy's name?" Amanda asked.

"Johannes Brueder. I don't know whether you've heard of him, but he's an old one, old enough that he was around when the Horsemen were still doing their thing. He didn't know them personally; never talked to them or anything, but he knew what they looked like and he saw them in Bordeaux when the plague broke out there. He thought it was kind of a funny coincidence, but didn't think much of it to begin with. But then it just kept getting bigger, and it all seemed too specific, like places were being targeted. So this guy went and investigated a few of the areas. Most of them. . .nothing could be found. But there were two places where he found a small bit of plastic, a wire. . . ."

It took a moment for it to sink into Amanda's numbed mind, but when it did her eyes widened. "Bombs," she whispered.

Richie nodded gravely. "Bombs. They cleaned up after themselves pretty good, but one or two places-- they got careless. That virus was planted."

Amanda's breath was quick and uneven; her eyes narrowed in deep suspicion.

"I got out of France eventually, but it was tough. So here I am now." The young Immortal gestured to his torn and dirty state with a weary hand before running his fingers through messy hair. "I never thought that anyone could really _do_ something like that. Even when Joe suggested how easy it would be for someone who really wanted to, I never thought that anyone _would_ really want to, you know?"

"Richie. . .who are the Horsemen?"

"Four guys," Richie shrugged with exaggerated insouciance. "Real old Immortals. Caspian, Silas, Kronos--and Methos."

Amanda exploded.

* * *

Joe closed his eyes. It had never seemed so real before. He should have known better, but he'd been sheltered by distance. Yes, he'd lost friends and colleagues, but. . . the virus had reached North America. It had eaten its way unstoppably through South America, up to Mexico and through the southern States. It was climbing both coastlines now, and though still quite a while away from Seacouver, it got closer every day.

Slowly, Dawson laid his cards on the table.

"Joe? What's wrong?" the Watcher across from him asked.

Joe smiled faintly. "Nothing. It's just. . .oh hell. I can't just sit here and pretend like nothing's happening. I mean, what are we doing?" He snorted and glanced around the table at the men and women sitting there, Watchers all. "Playing poker."

"Being miserable won't change anything, Joe. It'll get here, and probably sooner than later. We might as well enjoy ourselves while we can."

"I feel like I have terminal cancer," Joe muttered. "Like I should be out there living it up, packing in every last bit I can get. But I'm huddled in here because we're all afraid to go anywhere else. Hell, can't even take a world tour," he sighed, his mind touching fleetingly on Alexa. He hadn't thought of the pretty girl with leukemia for quite some time. It made him sad to think that he could so easily forget.

Joe slammed back his glass of whisky, and stood up.

"Play if you like. I'm going to get some work done."

He wondered what Methos was doing now.

* * *

Methos was in a quarantined town in Austria, slowly and carefully unravelling the small intestine of a screaming Immortal. When Methos gutted him, the man's belly attempted to heal itself, and Methos renewed the incision. He did this perhaps every ten seconds and found it worth the tedium to carefully observe the reactions of his victim. The other Immortal had surrendered his pride long ago, and made no attempt to stop the noises issuing from his mouth--once fully-fledged screams, now whimpers.

Long ago Methos had discovered that the mental reactions were far more interesting than the physical. A man could be captured, tortured, taken apart piece by piece, and until he was dead, truly dead, he would always believe that somehow, some way, he might escape. It was fascinating to watch the waxing and waning of hope: the degree to which a prisoner believed himself in danger; the way the eyes flickered every time a chance to overcome the captor presented itself. How the eyes weighed the odds, and the prisoner wondered how this could possibly have happened to them. Hadn't they been clever enough? Hadn't they been quick enough? Strong enough? Why had their judgement failed now, when it had always served them so well before?

Methos smiled; cut out the intestine, and held it up for the Immortal to view as a rose of pungent filth bloomed in the air. The prisoner seemed confused at first, not sure what to make of this strange, dirty string of flesh, and then his over-taxed mind caught up with his eyes. Comprehension dawned, and he drew even further into himself, glancing down and watching as his stomach knitted seamlessly back together, while Methos tossed his small intestine onto the flagstones of the courtyard.

The mortals were holed up in their homes or wandering around, dying either from the swords of the other Horsemen or from the disease. They might briefly pause to view Methos' careful work, but they were so desensitised now that they probably wouldn't care. They might even be curious about Immortal healing, but Immortality would likely be nothing enviable if it only meant endless pain. At least that was what they would tell themselves. Another thing Methos had learned long ago. They'd want it. But they were so embittered that they'd teach themselves to forget.

Methos tipped his head to the sky. It was overcast, reminding Methos of the sickness. The virus had mutated again. It now killed with heat: a raging, consuming fever that lasted only a day or two before leaving a fragile husk in its long wake. The parched men who wandered the streets like the walking dead, heedless of maurading Horsemen, would soon be hopping in the rain, howling with relief like the unlettered savages they were swiftly becoming. It was a return to what had come before. A time for everything, and everything in its time....

Methos tossed his knife aside, struck by an impulse, struck by a thought. His body felt suddenly almost as fevered as the dying mortals, but for very different reasons. Five thousand years was really not much when viewed in a larger context. Civilisation had not been young when Methos was born. There had already been cities—old cities-- economies, treasures, seats of worship. And words. Words spoken, and words written.

Methos turned his head, listening very intently and heard: through windows, up the street, behind him, before him, all around him. Words. Whispers, small, hidden conversations, words of comfort, and the whimpering of the Immortal behind him:

_"Please. . .please. . .please. . . ."_

Methos drew in a ragged breath before stalking over the Immortal; prying open his jaw; cutting out his tongue, and taking the man's head.

It was two days later when the Horsemen left Austria. Like the town in Asia, like the many they'd taken since, there was not a human left alive when they departed. Even in a torn world, people were beginning to notice the decimated towns, and the Horsemen were pleased. Heartily they expressed this pleasure--except for Methos. He had not spoken a word since he'd killed the Immortal. He nodded in greeting; he killed in silence; and he danced in the rain with the mortals before they died, watching the gore drip off of his white clothing to mingle with the dust in the streets.

And he said nothing

* * *

Joe walked through the fading evening air and up the long, luxurious path to house of the Four Horsemen. His steps were reluctant despite his efforts to be swift and determined. He didn't know whether he was welcome here. Though Methos paid frequent visits to the bar, he had not invited Joe to his house.

Joe could understand that, given the circumstances, but he wanted to talk to Methos, and no one was answering the phone, so he figured he might as well bite the bullet and see if Methos' housemates were really as benevolent as the ancient claimed. Ringing the bell, he waited for about half of a minute before ringing again. Another half minute passed, and Joe was about to give up and leave when two SUVs pulled into the spacious driveway. Silas and Caspian jumped out of the red van, and Kronos emerged from the black.

Perhaps twenty seconds later, Methos stepped out after Kronos. The oldest Immortal's movements were fluid and ghost-like and his face was set in an expressionless mask. Joe deliberately moved his arm up in greeting as the four older men came closer. Methos' behaviour disturbed him, but he ignored it with determination.

"Methos! Hey, Methos!" Joe called loudly.

Methos looked over blankly, and then beamed what was probably the brightest, most enthusiastic smile the Watcher had ever seen. Its intensity was blinding, and very catching. Joe smiled back broadly without thinking, but the ancient spoke no words of greeting. The other three Immortals watched coldly as Methos stopped right front of the Watcher and placed his hands on the man's arms, clenching them tightly as he continued to smile-- more softly, but no less warm.

And then he lifted his hand and placed the back of it across Joe's forehead, as though checking for a fever.

Methos smiled again, this time with a deep, feline emphasis, before stepping back and rejoining his brothers. Caspian was already unlocking the doors, and all four Horsemen disappeared inside. The doors slammed shut.

Joe stumbled back, feeling the lingering sensation of Methos' hand on his forehead, and shivered, chilled to the bone.

* * *

That night Amanda plied her craft with great determination. She was in the house of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse and she planned to kill them, even if she had to slit their throats in their beds. Her cat-suit was filled with knives. The plan was to kill them all in the mortal fashion, leave the knives so that they could not come after her, and then take the Quickenings one by one, at her leisure. There were security systems and deterrents blocking the way, but Amanda worked slowly and carefully through them all. She was a tense string of muscles as she silently ran to a room the end of the hall. She picked up speed as she continued, needing to be fast enough to outrun the Quickening by reaching her destination before the other had much time to react. Plucking the door open deftly, Amanda burst into the room on silent feet, drawing her sword, ready for action.

There was a bed, but it was empty. The covers were flat and unruffled in the moonlight shining through the open, unveiled window. No one was in the room. Amanda backed out cautiously, into the dark and silent hallway and again began to run.

Reaching the next bedroom she threw open the door and found it similarly uninhabited.

Turning to the staircase she ran downstairs to the next bedroom. Again, it was silent and dark. By the time she reached the fourth and fifth bedrooms, she was expecting the emptiness. The fourth bedroom she checked was not even furnished.

Standing in the silent house, she felt frustrated and foolish. Perhaps they were out somewhere, murdering other people's friends and loved ones. Maybe Methos was planning another betrayal. Amanda didn't not care. She would do what she had to do--but apparently not now. With the quietest of sighs, she walked back through the house, and back out the window. Her feet hit the grass softly, damp with the chill night air, and a cool breeze ruffled her short brown hair.

The Presence hit her without warning, strong and clear. Turning around slowly, she saw a tall, slim figure walking down the path towards the house. It was Methos. Their eyes locked, and both Immortals froze.

"Methos," Amanda said coldly.

Methos blinked, breaking his still posture and drawing his sword. He gestured to the backyard, and Amanda drew her own sword; walked backwards, keeping her eyes on Methos. When they stood in the middle of the enormous yard, Amanda lunged. Her motions were quick but calculated, designed to conserve her energy for a long battle. Neither Immortal spoke. Steel rang on steel, echoing in the night. Sweat soon poured down Amanda's face and her sides, and her brown eyes flashed with unmasked fury. This was the man who'd betrayed her and her friends, who had lied and deceived them and then committed genocide on a whim. This was the man who had almost certainly killed Duncan MacLeod.

After perhaps five minutes of silent combat, Amanda saw a hole in the other Immortal's sloppy defences, and she slid forward to take advantage of it, running her sword on Methos' arm. Bright red blood welled up and splashed across pure white wool, and Amanda beat her pained opponant back on the wet green grass. He slipped on the cool vegetation, dropping his sword. Amanda howled with triumph, swinging at Methos's neck as the ancient scrambled for his blade. The woman grinned with savage anticipation of the Quickening, an almost sexual joy singing through her body.

Then Methos rolled sharply, and the woman's blade bit into the ground, trapped for a single, endless instant. Amanda saw a flash of cold white teeth against a pale face and wild green eyes, burning with aroused victory. Methos pulled a long dagger out of his coat; slit open Amanda's belly and pulled her on the ground, where she fell forward onto her hands and knees. Panicked, she tried to crawl away, but a hand tangled in her hair as Methos rolled to his feet. He jerked the woman's head back, and she heard a growl, animal and vicious, followed by the faint whistle of the blade that took her head.

* * *

The Quickening was wily and subtle, defined by the person it had once been. Methos swayed in its power, moaning helplessly, enjoying every nuance of its seductive assault.

He dropped to his knees in the aftermath. Presence hit him a moment later, and he glared up at Caspian, who snickered down, amused.

"Now I know why you came back early. Keeping all the fun for yourself?"

Methos forced his shaking limbs into steadiness when he stood up, offering only a non-committal snort as he walked past his youngest brother-in-arms.

"Kronos and Silas are at the bars. They probably won't be back until morning. By the way," Caspian added, "What are you going to do with the body?"

Methos spun on the other Immortal and tangled his fingers in the man's shirt. Leaning up against him, he growled in a low, bestial voice that sent shudders of delight and terror through Caspian: "Let it _rot_."

Caspian watched Methos disappear inside the house and then turned back to Amanda's body, suddenly inspired. He knew what to do.

* * *

Almost there! One more part and an epilogue to go!

Yes, I know that the woman in the Revelation quote is actually the city of Babylon, but I thought Amanda would be flattered by the comparison;)

**Anonymous Reviews:**

Sapphire: Thanks for the review again! Methos is a very complex and knowledgable man. More people should be afraid of him:)

Psychee: Hi, there! Thanks for reading and reviewing. The story isn't really intended to be confusing per say. Methos is doing exactly what it seems like he is doing. In that way it's not really a game. But he's keeping a lot of information divied up amonst different parties.


	7. Silas

**Part 7: Silas**

_**And when he had opened the second seal, and I heard the second beast say, Come and see. And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword.**_** --Revelation 6:3&6:4, King James Bible**

_**It is well that war is so terrible - otherwise we would grow too fond of it.**_** -- Robert E. Lee**

_**War is much too serious a matter to be entrusted to the military.**_** --Georges Clemenceau**

Silas stood silently against the marble wall of a perfectly circular, shining white room lined with bookcases. This was Methos' library, and Methos was standing in the middle of it. Before him on the floor lay a single book. Silas knew that book. Methos had been searching for it for months; sending out inquiries all over the world; hunting out this most rare and ancient of tomes.

Methos smiled down at the book, and then walked away to retrieve several more volumes from the shelves. These too, Silas recognised. More old books, priceless books, more tomes that Methos had hunted liked prey. Soon there was a circle of ten books in the centre of the room. He smiled down at them, softly like a beloved father, and whipped out a bottle of lighter fluid to squeeze over the pages, making the old ink run brown. The Immortal carefully put the container aside and retrieved a little cardboard box. Inside were one hundred wooden matches. He struck one against the grainy side of the box, and the sweet smell of sulfur filled the air like incense.

Methos sighed and Silas leaned forward in anticipation. He instinctively understood that he was witnessing a momentous occasion. He felt honoured that he alone was allowed to witness it, even if he did not fully understand the implications of his brother's actions. Methos struck another match, still holding the first, and the scent increased. He struck a third, and then, before the first could go out, tossed all three little sticks down upon the soaked books at his feet. There was a pause, and fire exploded in the centre of the library. The books were consumed while Methos laughed, as delighted as a child, before running over to a shelf. He grabbed four heavy books and spun around, tossing them onto the pile. These books were somewhat more resilient, but the fire was persistent, and soon enough the edges began to singe and curl.

"Join me, Silas. Take the books." Methos voice was dark, hoarse from disuse, his tone ecstatic. He pulled down more books from the shelves and tossed several to his brother. Silas hesitantly dropped the books on the fire, and Methos smiled at him encouragingly. He danced about, emptying the shelves with persistence, and Silas soon found himself caught up in the excitement, delight dancing through his veins.

Methos loved his books, had always loved books, and he was burning them, destroying them with such joy, such pure wonder and delight. Silas was confused, but did not let that dampen his own enthusiasm. The whole room was soon consumed with heat, and Silas was transported back to long ago times, when a fire could recreate the whole world, when a simple stirring of the blood made one into a completely different person. He howled with glee, and heard Methos do the same. Even when the flames approached him, he felt nothing but that glee, and wanted to embrace it. Methos was oblivious through the surreal curtain of the flames, and it was only that which snapped Silas out of his fevered, antedeluvian dancing.

Striding through the fire, he grasped Methos by the arm to pull him out, and found himself contending with a snarling animal that was almost too caught up in the elemental delight of his obsession to recognise his own brother. They barely made it through the doors before the fire reached the roof and began to eat its way to the next floor. Silas slammed the door behind them, gasping for breath with lungs he'd only now realized were screaming. Beside him, Methos seemed to calm somewhat, turning to the other Horseman with a smirking little grin, the lines of his mouth moving upwards, his eyes slanting mischievously. "I haven't felt that good in ages," he said with sardonic warmth.

Silas felt happy, connected with his brother, but they had to get out of the house. "It's all going to burn." He looked around as he began to walk briskly away from the library, where the smoke was tunneling from under the door. "Kronos will be displeased, perhaps."

"Only because he wasn't here for it," Methos replied. "And Caspian won't mind at all."

Silas nodded. They jogged down the ornamental staircase. The smell of smoke was spreading, and Silas wondered how long it would take to consume the whole house. He felt no attachment to the structure. Not really. It was the people who had been in it that mattered.

Both Horsemen stumbled coughing out the door, and Methos carefully locked it behind them. They walked away from the place for the last time, careless, blameless, while the fire raged within.

* * *

Joe grunted at the deliveryman. With a stiff flare, he signed the form and handed back the pen.

"Thank you, Mr. Dawson. Have a nice day."

"You too," Joe nodded, "Thanks."

He closed his apartment door and picked up the package emblazoned with the legends "this side up" and "fragile," warning the handler to think twice about tossing the package about carelessly. There was no return address.

Still dressed in his housecoat, Joe shuffled over to the kitchen table and plunked the box down in the middle before walking to the counter and pouring himself a cup of black coffee. Sipping, he sat down and eyed the box. Perhaps it was a package from his sister? His birthday was coming up soon, after all. But really, even if she didn't have other things to worry about now, there would have been a return address. Sighing, Joe picked up a steak knife and sliced through the thick layers of packaging. Whoever had sent this was obviously tape crazy. Yet another point against the sister theory, Joe thought with a smile. Sarah had always been meticulously neat and frugal.

The flaps parted to reveal a sealed letter resting on a sea of plastic bubble packaging. Joe slit open the letter with the steak knife.

_Joe Dawson,_

_This object was found in the garden of your friend Methos. The woman came to kill him. I wonder why?_

There was no signature. Joe frowned. It was short and cryptic and he didn't like it one bit, even excepting the fact that whoever had written it knew who Methos was. He was suddenly reluctant to break through that sea of plastic.

"Might as well bite the bullet," the Watcher grumbled, taking another chug of coffee before slamming down his cup and carefully cutting through the plastic. He heard popping noises when he passed through the bubbles, tiny releases of air, and pulled away the packaging with a final effort. Below lay an opaque layer of plastic: bright, hot pink in colour. It was sealed and as Joe slowly pulled it out he found it disturbingly heavy. There was a slightly. . .soggy feel to whatever was inside.

Chill fingers traced themselves down his spine, and Joe reluctantly ripped open the bag. Horrific stench assaulted his nostrils, and he gagged, turning away from the table. He was not surprised by what it was, but he was horrified by who.

Sitting before him on the table was Amanda's rotting head.

He knew the realities of Immortality, had seen many a severed head, but this was different. This was a friend, and this was not a detached object flying away in the heat of a battle. This was the remain of woman whom he'd talked with and laughed with, a woman who must have dead now for many days. For a minute, he couldn't think at all. And then he remembered the letter. Picking it up, he traced the words with trembling hands. Methos. Methos had killed her. Amanda had discovered something? Joe thought back, remembering Methos' upset with Joe's accusations, his grief-stricken, little-boy-betrayed face. And he'd fallen for it. He'd fallen for that perfect act, for that five thousand year old travelling road show.

Joe knew he should be angry. He should be furious, but all he felt at the moment was sadness. Grief for both Amanda and Methos. He'd wanted so much to believe.

* * *

Methos was heading a crusade. Ever since that day in Austria, when it had dawned on him that words were the platform of civilisation, he'd offered one hundred American dollars for each book destroyed. The response had been explosive. People destroying hundreds of books, receiving thousands of dollars; some destroying whole publishing companies, warehouses filled with books, reaching for huge sums of money. He smiled down at the latest picture-proof. With the destruction of books would come a reduction of their records. With that came a reduction of the possibility of re-building civilisation.

It hurt, to be the destruction of what he had so often cherished, but it was a cleansing hurt, a purification.

* * *

That night Seacouver's public library burned down, causing panics in the downtown area, but Joe Dawson barely noticed. He'd buried Amanda's head and was now sitting behind his laptop computer: looking up reports, seeing who'd died recently, checking the statistics on the current world population. Four billion dead. The death rate had accelerated greatly. Joe could barely bring himself to care.

There was a knock at the door. Joe hobbled over, wondering if it was Methos.

It wasn't. Richie stood in the doorway.

"Hi, Joe. Can I come in?"

"Make yourself at home," Joe grunted, walking back up to the kitchen. Richie followed silently.

"I didn't know you were back," Joe said, plunking himself down at the table.

"I've been back for a while. I went to see Amanda. I thought she could help, but she took off by herself before that could happen."

"She's dead," Joe said shortly.

"I thought so," Richie replied, looking briefly sad.

"So, its true. Methos and the other Horseman are responsible for the virus, then?" Joe asked.

"I thought you already knew that?"

"I suspected. I wasn't sure. I guess I...didn't want to believe that Methos could have done it. Could have killed MacLeod."

"I went looking for Mac, Joe. I can't say anthing for sure, but I did find Cassandra, and she was dead. Now Amanda...doesn't look too good for Mac," Richie said through tight lips.

Joe closed his eyes briefly, shaking his head.

"Methos said Mac was dead. But he said an Immortal named Johannus Brueder did it. And I believed him. Until I received Amanda's head in a box yesterday."

Richie stared at the Watcher. "Johannus Brueder? Joe, he's the Immortal that told me about the virus, the way the Horseman planted the bombs to spread it. And Methos said _he_ killed Mac? It figures."

"Yeah. Typical Adam," Joe snorted.

"So what are you going to do?" Richie asked.

"Do? I don't know. A few months ago I could marched right over and confronted Methos and his pals, maybe shot them and taken their heads. Now I don't even see why. It's not gonna change anything. We'll all be dead soon anyway. Well, you'll be around for a long time. Better you than me, Richie." Joe stared at the wall. "The world's gone to hell in a handbasket, courtesy of the Horseman of the Apocalypse."

Richie snorted. "Yeah. You've gotta give them points for style, right?"

"Something like that. Sure, I'll do something. Maybe someone'll kill them, maybe not. But it'll be something."

* * *

Ron Alighieri was in the research library of the North American Watcher headquarters. He had the answers to his questions now. Why Pierson, alias Methos, was important. Who those three men with him were. Joe Dawson's report, sent to the Tribunal, which had in turn sent it to every active agent.

Without warning, the phone rang, and Alighieri picked it up. Several minutes later, he hung up and started a new call to book his flight.

Two weeks later Seacouver was a war zone.

Watchers stalked the streets, dark clad and nonchalant, blending into the crowd until they saw a man, slightly below average height and clad in dark leather. And then the guns came out, the Watchers shooting, the man turning to run. Bullets pursued him and he barely dodged their path.

On another side of the city, a similar occurrence took place when a large blond man was spotted, shot at and hunted.

And in another place, a man with jagged teeth and a tattooed head fled on quick feet from his pursuing avengers.

And finally, a man dressed in white, coat flying behind him like the wings of a death angel, only a step ahead of the fury of his former colleagues.

Citizens screamed, called for help, panicked. Men, women, and even children were hit by stray bullets. The city itself seemed to erupt as fires were conjured from the ether. People screamed and swayed, and four prey and four parties of hunters converged. All four men turned to face outwards, joined at the shoulders in a diamond, as the Watchers' guns went up at the same time, drawing bead on the four Immortals. And at the same time, the Horsemen threw down eight vials, smashing them on the concrete to release their deadly contents. The virus, concentrated beyond the tolerance of any mortal, hit the air and was breathed in by the hunters. The Horsemen were riddled with dozens of bullets at the same time the hunters fell down in burning convulsions.

* * *

I apologise for the unforgivably long interlude between chapters. The demon Real Life has been having its wicked way with me. There's only one more part to come after this, in which loose ends will be tied and the answers to certain mysteries revealed. It should appear within a week or two.

Review responses:

**Sapphire:** Sorry you had to count quite so many days, but I am very glad that you enjoyed the last chapter so much, and that I was able to give you some insight into Methos. :)


	8. Duncan

**Epilogue: Duncan**

_**And I saw heaven open, and behold a white horse, and he sat sat upon him was called Faithful and True, and in righteousness he doth judge and make war. --**_Revelation 19:11, King James Bible

_**I bet an angry universe would look at you with eyes like that.**_--Fragile Things, Neil Gaiman

Methos descended a well-lit staircase, passing clear plexi-glass walls and sterile white tiles until he emerged into a windowless, gleaming white alcove broke onto by a single, arching white door. An enigmatic smile tugged at the Immortal's thin lips as he keyed in a code and the door slid open. Inside the adjacent hallway was equally well-lit. Methos' footsteps fell quietly, but they alerted the man sitting at a desk perched just outside another door.

"Mr. Pierson," the dark-haired man said in a thick German accent.

"How is he?" Methos asked impassively.

"Quiet right now. He's been fed, and he hasn't tried escaping yet today."

Methos smiled with fond exasperation. "Open the door."

The dark-haired German nodded and keyed in another code. The final door swung open, and Methos slipped inside.

It was dark, shadowy within, an artificial night. The faint, brooding breath of a sleeping predator wafted from the cell inside. Methos stood, observing, making no sound. Minutes ticked by, and he heard the breaths slightly quicken as the prisoner awoke. Neither greeted the other, and the prisoner did not move, feigning a rest that neither believed.

Finally, Methos sighed. "I know you're awake, MacLeod."

"What do you want, Methos?" Duncan growled, twisting to his feet and stalking over to the thick plexi-glass wall of his prison.

Methos shrugged. "To talk."

MacLeod's eyes gleamed with a feral, contemptuous light. "We have nothing to talk about, _Horseman._"

"Mac--"

"_Don't_ call me that. My friends call me Mac. You're no friend of mine. Not anymore."

Methos fell silent for a moment. "You may not be my friend, but I'm still yours."

"Oh yeah, because friends lock each other up," MacLeod snarled.

"_Don't you get it! _I'm trying to _protect _you!" Methos voice went up with exasperation.

"I don't need your protection, and I don't need your friendship. I'm going to get out of here, Methos," MacLeod's voice went dangerously soft. "And when I do, you'll be the one who needs protection."

"I thought you would understand," the older Immortal sighed. "You're necessary… It's the Horsemen's time now, MacLeod, but someday it will be the time for heroes again. When that time comes, the world will need you. But if I let you out of here now, there won't be any heroes left. Not with the Horsemen running the show."

MacLeod laughed. "You think I'll forget you're one of them? Think I'm ever going to forgive what you've done? When the time for heroes comes again, I promise you'll be the first villain to go."

Methos eyes grew sad. Slowly, he placed a hand against the plastic, spreading his fingers tauntingly while MacLeod's lips drew back from his teeth: feral.

"I'll be back again to check on you," the oldest Immortal said consolingly. He smiled brightly and turned away from the brown eyes that gleamed with bloodlust, setting fire to the dark.

**_FINIS_**

* * *

I realise that you've waited an unforgivably long time for a 600 word epilogue. In my defence, I can only say that life has been more than a bit complicated. I hope that you've all enjoyed this story, and thank you for reading.\

Oh, and 10 points to everyone who figures out who the German is. :)


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